


Betwixt Mine Eye And Heart

by Anonymous



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Sex Practices, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 19:29:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes, the meaning is neither as far as it seems or as close.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in high school. Like just after the first series was released on DVD in the US. Haven't gotten around to editing. Or just updating the whole thing with the improved perspective of age.
> 
> I have been tempted to continue it to its end, if I do ever get around to re-vamping it.

Aya should have been gawky.

His height/weight ratio should have made him look like a landbound crane. His too-long hands should have tripped over each other--or anything else, for that matter--whenever they came too close together. His feet should have thought they were both left--or right--and competed for the same space.

It isn't as if he moves slowly enough to compensate, like I do. If I move as fast as Aya does, I _do_ look like that landbound crane struggling valiantly for take off. So I'm sleepily slow and my stick-thin body manages to seem graceful. If I had a yen for every time Ken rolled his eyes and muttered about how Kritiker had to have given us cat breeds for code names because of me... Anyway. I can understand how I don't look ludicrous.

But Aya? He moves with perfunctory speed and a steady, steady grace that's almost surreal. Maybe unreal would be a better word. But it's not a conscious thing, this grace, unlike mine. It's a part of him, like those summer sunset after the rain eyes or that fire engine red hair.

The icily pissed-off demeanor--that's forced. At least the icy part. That steely calm isn't natural to Aya. He should be as volatile as a chemist's experiment. Not just part of the time, but _all_ of the time. And somewhere under that veneer, he is. You can see it in the flicker of his eyes before the walls slam down, the reflexive clenching of his hands before he forces them loose again. It's all there for anyone with eyes to see it.

He's got to be the most repressed person I've ever met.

He's also got to be the most fuckable man I've ever seen.

It's like that pale skin just begs you to touch it, mark it, with your fingers. And those eyes that look right through you, they challenge you to test them; whether they close during sex--and orgasm--or whether you get to watch the whole show play through them. His lips promise to bruise and swell if only you'd try...

I never thought I'd want him. Not even when I had him in my bed--when it first occurred to me he was a lot prettier than most of the women I knew. It took a few more months before I started using him as an occasional masturbatory fantasy. I wasn't shocked that I'd imagined fucking--or being fucked by--a man. I've been around enough; I know it just happens like that sometimes. Your libido needs a change of pace and picks something you'd never consciously do. Doesn't mean you want it, just means you're feeling the need for extras.

What _did_ shock me was the realization that I _did_ want to try it. Or at least try Aya. Y'know, it does something to a man's brain to know he might not have himself as sorted out as he thinks he does. Still, as often as Aya starred in my sexual daydreams, I had no clue how I could talk him into it. "Excuse me, Aya, but you think we can head up to my place after work and try breaking the bed?"

I could just see how well _that_ would go over. Couldn't you?

I resigned myself to looking covertly and keeping my hands and thoughts occupied with other things whenever he was around. Just as well, probably. If easily gotten treasure has no value, the unattainable should be priceless.

No, I don't buy it either.

I wanted to be content with the sometimes on/sometimes off friendship we shared. I suppose I wanted to cast myself as some kind of saint in my own mind. The results of my self-denial reminded me of a documentary I'd seen about America's Prohibition Era. You know, the heyday of their version of the Yakuza.

Translation: I just wanted him more.

That, I suppose, is how I got myself into this whole fix in the first place.

Since I was watching him, I decided to make a little game out of it. Sort of see how long I could do it straight with no one noticing me. My reward for this game wasn't really apparent, at first. Or, rather, it turned out not to be the coveted knowledge of having gotten away with ogling _Aya,_ but instead it was the glimpses into his walled world, the clues to the mystery of Aya, that I began to collect. The ogling made me feel guilty, ironically, like I was copping feels on skittish virgin. But I did it anyway, and the reward...

I think I know what Aya's world looks like from in there. The first clue was Aya. Not the man but the pinched nerve my teasing prodded when he first joined us. And Ken's memory, however faulty, of the news I never paid much heed to. Aya is the floor of this box-world, the name he uses to remind himself why he does this. The walls were easier to figure out--Ken, Omi, myself, and Kritiker. We're not so reliable to him as the "floor", but then, I'm not sure even Omi really sees the box. Besides, the "floor" can't change while she's in a coma, can she? The "walls" of his box, unfortunately, are all awake and less static than he must be to stay sane. The roof is, considerately, more stable--his revenge on Takatori. As long as he focuses on that, holds that over his head, none of this can touch him. He is shielded inside this box from the things he does or is subjected to. He thinks so, anyway.

But I just have to watch the boxed man struggling silently to keep it together, and wonder...what's he going to do when he shatters his own roof? When the walls come apart, and the floor either caves in or heaves up? What's he going to do when the box breaks? Fishing for that most upsetting puzzle piece, I discovered I was scared of the answer: I don't know. How do most depressive homicidal psychotics handle emotional quicksand?


	2. Top Dog

Omi and I had felt vaguely grateful when Kritiker first dumped Aya with us.

Neither of our basic combat strategies were really designed for the up-close one-on-one combat Ken's was. We'd both slunk around trying to avoid letting him catch us for sparring matches. I mean, staffs are easy to use, and I'm quick on my feet, but I couldn't exactly give him a real match. Too lean, really. Speed was my strength. Omi's was a keen eye. Neither of us was likely to win a fist fight with Ken, let alone give him a decent run with his chosen weapon. But with sword-bearing Aya, there was a chance Omi and I would never have to feel like we were disappointing Ken with our best efforts to give him a run on the practice floor. Surely, different as their weapons of choice were, they could do for each other and leave us to our more solitary exercises.

Of course, them tearing up the shop first thing did sort of make us wonder whether it was a good idea to let them fight each other again.

But after a while, when comparing notes, Omi and I had realized neither of us had been asked to spar with Ken in nearly a month. Aya had _never_ asked either of us. We started peering at the both of them a bit nervously, although they hadn't been at each other's throats since that first week or so. We were startled--or at least I was startled--to discover Ken and Aya had started moving into a comfortable, if sometimes violent, friendship. And they had been practicing together every other day, as missions and shifts in the shop allowed.

I still remember the first time I watched them fight.

I had been certain that Weiss was going to have to explain why one of them was dead within the next hour, but... They had practically danced around other; moved with each other like longtime lovers that knew exactly how to push the other into that zone where everything was sensation and reaction. There hadn't been a clear victor then, or any subsequent time. They always walked away panting and sweating with their exertions and with much improved dispositions--which at first had been saying something with Aya.

Until this whole thing with Ken's not-friend Kase. That was exploding across the practice mats beneath the wary gaze of Omi and me. And we had no idea how to stop it, not with both of them looking like they were doing their damnedest to kill each other or anything that came between them. Omi had come to get me when he first noticed the sounds. Ken and Aya hadn't noticed us yet, but I knew if either of us took one step past the open doorway, we would be fair game. And dead game. They meant _business_ in there.

Just now, Ken had Aya's wooden practice sword halfway down the rounded 'blade' and was struggling to get Aya on the other end of it with a wicked undercut of his blunt wooden claws. Aya's bare feet took a couple of dance-like steps to the side before he literally dropped to the mats, skidded on his ass, and went between the startled and cursing Ken's legs. When Aya came up, Ken had the wooden shinai, but Aya had only come up to his knees. The swordsman slammed a shoulder into the back of Ken's knees, leaving both of them sprawled on the mats, and the shinai skidded into the door, making Omi jump under my hand. The violent half of Weiss wrestled on the mats; Aya trying to keep Ken's blunt wooden claws from his throat, and Ken trying to bury them in that pale flesh. Finally Ken's knee came up to pound entirely too close to Aya's groin for comfort. Aya jerked, and that was all the opening Ken needed. Pounding a foot and a hand jerked from Aya's momentarily relaxed grip, Ken flipped them over and raised the wooden claws.

Omi practically squeaked and shoved the door so hard it crashed against the wall, but neither man noticed him. They had stopped, frozen how they were. Aya's eyes were obscured from our angle by an eartail that hadn't completed the journey Ken had forced. One arm had gotten pinned under Ken's leg, and the other was clutched bruisingly tight around Ken's weapon hand. It seemed Aya's whole body was racked by each panting breath. Ken's breathing was no better. His narrowed eyes bored into Aya's over a silent, animalistic snarl. The wooden claws stayed where they were, pulled back as if to rip a gory chunk of Aya's throat out onto the practice mats as soon as he wore Aya's weaker hand down. My hand on Omi's shoulder stopped him before he interrupted the tableau.

After a seemingly endless duration, Aya lifted his chin and released Ken's arm.

Omi tried jerking out from under my hand until I slapped the other over his mouth and hissed in his ear.

Ken's silent snarl became a triumphant roar, and the wooden claws punched through the mats next to Aya's head, scraping against the polished wood like nails across chalkboards.

Omi shivered as I carefully released him. Ken rolled off of Aya, yanking the glove off of his hand and throwing the broken contraption to the ground beside the unmoving Aya's hip. Ken looked up at Omi and me in the doorway with no expression at all before shoving his bruising hand into his pocket and walking toward us. I stepped away, letting him go without a word. Omi frowned at him; poor kid probably didn't know who to help. I shook my head and patted his shoulder. "Let him go. He's gotta think this out on his own. I'll handle Aya's bruised dignity. You go back to your homework, kid."

I walked through the door, trusting Omi to do what I said because he knew as well as I did that most of Ken's violence would be gone now that Aya had worked it out of him. There wasn't anything else we could really do for him now. Aya stayed where the fight had left him, unmoving but for the greedy rise and fall of his chest. I stepped over him, turned, and squatted at his side. I checked the door to make sure Omi had gone before I looked down. I prodded the new holes in the mats carefully and decided we would have to replace the torn mat, this time. I lifted my gaze to Aya's face. There was a bruise blooming across his left cheekbone that would have to be handled soon before we couldn't hide it from the customers. I decided we really needed to keep a second first aid kit in here, not downstairs. His arms weren't in better shape, really, but those could be hidden by that awful sweater of his. His eyes were closed under the tendril of hair, and he seemed in no hurry to move. "Aya, I know you can stand up if Ken did it. C'mon, we need to do something about your cheek before the kids have an eyeful of it tomorrow."

Those eyes opened, but they weren't focusing, on me or anything. I suddenly wondered how hard Aya's head had cracked the floor when Ken flipped them over. Without bothering to ask permission, I slipped one hand under his neck and pulled him up enough to probe the back of his skull for a knot. A pale hand shot up to wrap around my wrist, digging a hard thumb into the fragile tendons and veins on the underside. Hissing, I let him go, only to snort at him when his head hit the mats again, and he couldn't quite keep himself from wincing.

Slowly, Aya pushed himself up into a cross-legged seat on the mats and explored the back of his head on his own. Those violet eyes were focused when he looked up at me. They were also crinkled and slitted on either side of a deep line marring his forehead. Even the corners of his mouth had gotten involved with what had to be the most evil scowl with which Aya had ever gifted me. I stood and offered him a hand up. He took a deep breath before accepting my hand; more for balance than actual need, I decided, as he stood. I guessed his ears were still ringing, and his eyes were still seeing sparklers. He rubbed gingerly at the back of his head once on his feet. "You okay?"

"Fine." Aya released his hold on my arm and stepped towards the wooden shinai. He bent carefully to pick it up--keeping a hand on the wall--and carried it back to the rack. He moved easily enough when he was upright, so I decided he wasn't concussed. Ken had just rattled his brain case a bit hard. Nothing major. Sliding me a sideways view of that scowl, Aya lifted a hand to rub a finger down the bridge of his nose.

"Your cheek. Still gotta do something about it, Aya."

"I'll do it in a minute. My ears haven't decided to stop playing Omi's hard rock classics yet."

I couldn't help it; I laughed. His scowl eased with the sound, and the last tension in the room broke up. I padded towards the door, waving a hand. "I'll bring the cream to you then."

"I'll do it in a minute, Yohji."

"The faster you do it, the better chance it'll fix the bruise before your shift tomorrow." Glancing over my shoulder, I met his flat eyes with a frown of my own. I shoved both hands into my pockets and rocked on my heels. He didn't answer, just continued to meet my gaze like he'd met Ken's only minutes before, but we weren't holding weapons on each other. After half a minute or so, I looked away and shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way, Aya. I was just trying to be nice."

Neither of us said anything more as I crossed the short hallway to the stairs that connected the top floor to the third where his and Ken's rooms were. There was nothing to say, really.


	3. Cookies

The next morning, I shambled into the kitchen, rubbing my head gingerly and oblivious to everything as I made a weaving path to the coffee pot through the sick-sweet smell of fresh baked cookies. The Powers That Be were smiling at me--three cups left and it was hot. After pouring two-thirds of the coffee into the huge gag mug Ken had bought me at random one day--never thinking I'd actually _use_ it--I deigned to notice I wasn't alone. I blinked and peered at Aya and Omi. Both were leaning over a glass of milk, so close I wondered if they were going to bump their heads together. Omi had a spoon and was prodding the milk with it. I blinked and looked at my coffee. Maybe the PTB weren't being as kind as I thought? Aya lifted a hand, tapping one slim finger against the rim of the glass. It brought my attention back to them abruptly. His eyes were narrow but relaxed at the corners and no line was drawing in between them; an Aya 'intense study' look. "Well, I think that settles it. Ken bought the cheap brand."

"Aya-kun, be fair. He probably thought it was a good bargain. That coffee is probably stale by now, Yohji-kun." Omi prodded the innocent milk with the spoon again.

"Then he can eat his bargain. This--" Aya nudged the glass with the knuckle from his tapping finger. I now saw the surface of the milk was speckled with brown and black somethings. It jiggled like bug eggs in water. Ugh. "--is disgusting. I refuse to eat any of it."

"Aya-kun, be nice. Uhh--how about we offer the rest of the bags to the girls in the shop? That way we won't have to tell him he bought the wrong kind." Omi waved the milk spotted spoon towards the counter behind me.

Somehow, that made me wary about the condition of the coffee. Stale, I could deal with. If this stuff was unsafe, though... I shuffled to the table, trying to get a better look in that glass myself. "Uh, guys? What the hell are you talking about? And does it have anything to do with the coffee?"

"No. Ken-kun bought the store brand chocolate chips last week. They don't melt in milk. Aya-kun is picky; his chocolate must melt in milk." Omi said, singsong with amusement, as he stood, bringing the glass up in his hand. He held it out for me to see the cookie bits better.

Aya grunted behind him and folded his arms on the table. "It has too many preservatives if it will not melt when hot."

"Okay, Aya," I murmured, blinking at the cookie bits in milk Omi was holding under my nose. "If you make me more coffee, I'll go out and buy whatever brand of chocolate chips you want while I do deliveries. Omi can bake the rest of the cheap shit into cookies for the store. The girls won't know the difference."

"Yohji-kun, what do _I_ get out of this?" With an impish grin, Omi leaned against the table, sloshing the glass threateningly.

I had to think hard about that. "I'll do this week's shopping? It's your turn, right?"

"Yeah, it is. Hmm. I think that's fair. Aya-kun?" Omi shifted to look down at the redhead behind him. Apparently not as picky about his chocolate's solubility, the kid downed a gulp of the cookie milk, ignoring the spoon that bounced into the side of his face.

Aya waved a hand--which could have meant anything--but the corners of his eyes and his finely arched brows were relaxed as he watched Omi; an Aya smile. The redhead stood and moved silently over to the coffee pot. He even took the time to set the sugar and a spoon on the table. I decided the PTB _were_ being kind to me as I dropped into a seat at the table.

Omi sorted through the fridge for the eggs and butter he needed to make the rest of Ken's mistake into cookies. I glanced away from him to watch Aya dump the old coffee--wasteful, Ken called it; tasteful, Aya always responded--and wash out the carafe and wire mesh filter. He didn't waste a movement as he dried the filter with a hand towel--another step he insisted on--and filled it with some expensive brand he bought. The rest of Weiss had agreed it was safer to let Aya buy the coffee than deal with his glaring at the pot every morning when we didn't buy the right kind. With that thought, I decided to add chocolate chips to that Aya-only food list. I glanced back at Omi, watching him stir various arcane cookie-making ingredients together.

"Feeling better?" Aya's voice startled me as he sat down again, reaching for the morning paper.

I shrugged and offered him a sleepy smile. "Sure. Nothin' like a mystery solved to cure a headache."

"Want some aspirin, Yohji-kun?" Omi glanced over his shoulder, still stirring.

"Nah, I'm fine. I just need the coffee Aya is so kindly making for me." With that, I yawned and went into a full body stretch, nevermind the chair. Aya ducked my stray hand and shoved the entertainment section my way. "Thanks, Aya. Where is Ken, by the way?"

"Out, we guess. He didn't come home last night." Omi's voice held just a hint of concern. It wouldn't be all-out worry until tomorrow morning, if Ken still hadn't checked in. Two days had been the kid's limit for not knowing where we were for as long as Ken could remember and hadn't changed when I was thrown on the team. Three got you a terrific lecture on team responsibility, but two would be overlooked but for a couple of frowns.

Aya shook his head in that very slight way that indicated there had been a conversation about Ken's absence before the great nonmelting-chocolate crisis, and it perhaps hadn't ended in agreement before it had been dropped. I flopped forward, tugging my huge coffee mug closer. I raised an eyebrow at Aya in silent question. The redhead shrugged one shoulder just slightly. That meant he didn't think his disagreement was worth mentioning--yet. "If he doesn't show up, I get stuck moving the heavy pots again, don't I?"

"Of course, Yohji-kun. Did you think we'd go easy on you?" The grin Omi directed at Aya was almost conspiratorial this time. Aya flipped through the business section of the paper without responding. The corners of his eyes were crinkled but no line was forming in the middle of his forehead; an Aya chuckle. I chuckled myself and drank my stale coffee until Aya's fresh batch finished brewing. It wasn't a bad start to the morning, all things considered.


	4. Love Talk

So I was sitting in a bar, thinking. Now, this might seem only remarkable for the thinking part, but, well... Okay, so maybe it would only be remarkable because it was _me_ doing the thinking. But that shot of Ken's had hurt. I wouldn't know about love, hmm? Because I chased anything of legal age in a skirt, I _couldn't_ know, of course.

Sure, Ken. I don't know a goddamn thing. I couldn't know that if you left, guilt would eat you alive for going with her. What you've done will catch up with you. It always does. Good intentions damn you before anything else. Go with that girl, Ken, and you'll regret it. But when the hell did you ever listen to me? Hell, even Aya can't get you to listen to him all the time.

When I die, I won't be joining Asuka in a beautiful afterlife. And it's better that way. The things I've done for her--it's better she never know about them. Better to find someone that couldn't be disappointed in you, Ken, or appalled at what you are. Aya understands that; he understands isolating yourself from the things you do this for. To touch them with love is to spread the sickness.

Beside me at the bar was a girl I'd met upon walking in. She was watching me with a strange expression now. Guess maybe she had been thinking the pretty face wouldn't be attached to a morbidly depressed mind. Setting a slim hand, almost as pale as Aya's on my arm, she shook me. "Hey. Y'know, you should probably go home to her. She's probably worried."

"What? Huh? Who? I don't have a girl at home." I looked at her hand, realized my muttering actually _had_ been loud enough to be understood, and frowned. What had she heard? "Ken is a friend from work. And not a girl."

"I figured that. I was talking about Aya. If she'll understand, you should go home to her. She's probably worried by now." Staring at the girl, I guessed she couldn't have been very much over eighteen. Her hand patted my arm lightly, offering comfort as if I was still worth it. "You should go."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. Aya, my girlfriend? Oh, damn. If only he'd been there to hear that. Aya worried about me? Wouldn't happen. At least he wouldn't worry about me as a person. As a functioning member of a killing group, sure, he'd be worried about my condition tomorrow. But tonight, he'd only be disgusted, if he caught me. "Aya worries about nothing. Especially not me."

"Then you should do something about that. If she'd understand you better than your guy friend, you'd be better off spending the night with her rather than that bottle."

Too damn smart for my good. I could feel a scowl forming as I looked down at her, processing what she said around enough alcohol to intoxicate an elephant, let alone skinny me. For a bad moment, I pictured doing just that. Pictured spending the night with Aya beyond the occasional fantasies I'd started having. I shook my head and practically fell off the stool. I had to get out of here. "Aya would kill me first. Ken is Aya's favorite, anyway. Not Yohji."

"Yohji, that your name? Talk to her. If Ken's not paying attention to her, she'll get over him eventually." She had my arm again, peering up at me with the most adorable little frown. She couldn't be eighteen. She let me go with a sad sort of smile. "Be careful going home."

"You, too." I escaped without ever asking her name.


	5. Morning Surprise

I'd hidden in my room all day, refusing to come out even for meals. Having dealt with me and Ken waging silent war before, I figured Omi would eventually leave a tray outside my door with some message to that effect. It was three in the afternoon before there was a soft knock at my door, but Omi--because it surely had to be Omi--said nothing. Oh, great. Was I everyone's bad guy now? At least Aya hadn't glared at me this morning. Just a mild scowl as he helped me up the stairs so I didn't break anything--good idea, his helping me, as I don't remember most of the trip home, let alone the stairs. Omi knocked again, but still said nothing. Well, if he wasn't going to say anything, neither was I.

Then the door just opened, and I rolled over on my bed to snarl at Omi who'd never dared enter my private territory without permission before--

And blinked at Aya. Blank, closed eyes catalogued everything in my room on the first glance before he stepped in, set the tray in his hands down on my coffee table, and turned around. He paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder, still without any clue about what he was thinking. It made me nervous, that blankness. I'd woken up on my floor, but surely that was just because I'd had the gall to come home when _Aya_ would have to deal with me... "There is aspirin on the tray, and the coffee is fresh." Then he slipped out the door, shutting it soundlessly behind him.

The hell?

I blinked at the tray, scowling at the tray as if insulted. And I couldn't say why I felt that way. It took me another ten minutes before I crawled off the bed. My stomach was roiling in protest to the smells, but coffee and aspirin should take care of that problem. Dropping onto my couch, bare as I'd fallen into bed the first time I'd woken up, I didn't have to blink too hard before finding the three pills--bless Aya--and my gag mug. I frowned at it, not really having wanted the reminder of Ken just that second, but I popped the pills and washed them down with the coffee anyway.

There was more food on there than even Omi could finish, but I had plans to make as much of it disappear as I could. I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, so my stomach, protesting or not, wanted the food. I blinked at it for a moment, wondering what the hell some of this stuff was. This had to be Aya's doing. Omi only knew how to make good Japanese foods. This stuff reminded me of things I'd seen in imported movies from time to time. Or at McDonald's, the one time I'd tried that disaster.

Oh, well. If someone ate it regularly an ocean away, chances were it wouldn't kill me. And Aya was a more than decent cook, unlike the people at McDonald's...

There was another knock on my door--slower, more hesitant--by the time I'd gotten the jam on the bread. I didn't bother saying anything. If it was Aya, he'd just barge in again. Omi would cave and say something. Ken just wouldn't--

"Yohji? S'Ken. Can I come in?"

Well, _shit._

I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and wondered just what the hell I'd done this time. I didn't say anything for a long stretch, and I heard him shuffle in place out there. Finally, lowering the jam smeared bread to the plate and burying my face in my free hand, I reached for the jeans I'd tossed over the end of my bed and pulled them on. I raised my voice so he could hear me on the other side. "Yeah. But I reserve the right to throw you back out."

"I figured you would." Ken stepped through the door, glancing first at my bed, then at me, then he blinked at the tray on my table. Finishing zipping up, I dropped back into my sprawl on the couch.

"Aya made it, I think. Don't think Omi knows how to make this sort of stuff." I shrugged and nodded him onto my couch beside me. Wasn't like I had a chair to offer him. He sat on the floor opposite me instead, leaning over the other end of the tray with his elbows on my coffee table. A thoughtful look colored his features as he studied the food. "You can have some. He put more on this thing than Omi can eat, let alone me."

"Huh. Funny man." Whatever else Ken might have been thinking about Aya, he kept it to himself and reached for the jam and a free piece of bread himself. "Thanks. I am kind of hungry. Missed breakfast. I just...thought I'd say I think I understand."

"But you don't have to like it, right?" I gave him a grim chuckle and bit into my bread. Ah, youth. He was just two years younger, but I couldn't clearly remember what it was like. I felt so old, looking down at him work through his food more efficiently than I. "The hardest lesson anyone learns, Ken, is that life isn't fair. It's even less fair for us, now. We should've read the fine print before joining up, maybe."

"I just..." Ken lowered both hands to the table and stared blindly at the fried eggs. "I wanted to make her happy. I didn't want to think I couldn't do that. Couldn't give her what she wanted."

"She wanted a dissatisfied florist, Ken. You couldn't give her that because you're not that." I didn't meet Ken's eyes when he looked up. I didn't want to deal with anyone else's pain. I had enough of my own still trying to unknot itself from around my heart. "We're none of us what we appear to be. It's not a good idea to..." My hand with the last slice of jam smeared bread gestured helplessly to the side. "What we are will seep to the surface sooner or later, Ken. Better to be alone than bring that one someone innocent."

"Damn Persia."

"My thoughts exactly. Try the bacon. It's burned crunchy, but I think it's supposed to be. Tastes better than the floppy shit McDonald's had when I tried it there."

"You ate there?" Ken blinked at me.

"I thought it'd be interesting to try." I shrugged and popped another piece of bacon in my mouth. "I can only hope the cooks know what they're doing now, 'cause they sure didn't before."

We continued to eat in near-silence for a while, until the tray was almost empty, and I wondered if Aya hadn't planned it this way. Ken's elbows rested on the table, and his chin was in his hands. His eyes were closed, for which I was grateful. "Yohji?"

"Yeah, Ken?"

"I don't want to be alone with this."

"You still have us, Ken. Granted, we're not women, but at least we're friends. And you can't hurt us with what you are, 'cause we're the same."

Ken sighed and uncurled from the floor. He picked up the tray without a word and headed for the door. But he didn't seem as frozen, so maybe I'd said something right this time. I know I felt about as good as I was going to get before taking a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McDonald's opened in Japan in 1997.


	6. Movie Night

Ken and Omi were watching a movie--some flashy pop culture looking thing with Chara that was put out last year. Beside me, Omi had the popcorn bowl perched somehow between his knees. On the other side of him, Ken was seated on the floor with his elbows propped on the coffee table and his chin in his hands. They had invited me down to watch the movie with them, so I was sprawled by the couch arm, reaching for the popcorn every once in a while. But I'd lost interest in the movie before we even settled down to watch it.

Aya had already been there--on the couch in the living room--with a book in his hands. He only shrugged when Omi, shuffling from one foot to the other, had asked if we'd be disturbing him too much. Ken leaned over Aya's shoulder to look at the book in his hands with a snicker, dropped at Aya's feet to curl around the couch-side edge of the coffee table, and put the popcorn bowl down in the middle of the table. "We won't bother him. Just put in the movie, Omi."

Aya's fine eyebrows had arched just slightly over fractionally narrowed eyes and barely pursed lips; Aya's version of matronly annoyance. He didn't bother looking up from his book at Ken any more than he had Omi, though he did trouble himself to respond to Omi's question aloud now that Ken had prodded him. "Go ahead, Omi. If I'm bothered, I can go back to my room to read."

Omi shuffled a moment more, glancing from Ken to me, then back to Aya before stepping over Ken and table to put on the movie. I hovered in the doorway watching all three of them before ambling towards the couch and claiming the end furthest from Aya. If I thought it would do me any good, I would curse that girl from the bar. I should go home to Aya, huh? Spend the night with 'her' if 'she' understands me? Aya doesn't understand. I've gotten better at watching him than he's gotten at catching me, so he doesn't know.

But damn the thoughts she put in my head won't go away. I could handle the stupid fantasies. They were nothing, really, but idle, lusty thoughts and nervous energy. The concept of Aya understanding me, of me understanding him in return, of spending nights with him--that disturbed me. I didn't know if I was ready for anything beyond one night stand sex. Thinking of going past that with _Aya_ of all people... I wanted him, and be damned if I had a clue how to get rid of the want. Or if I even wanted to be rid of it. After all, Asuka was dead and I'd done what I'd meant to do for her. Surely she had no more claim on what was left of my soul. Granted, Aya was so neutral, I couldn't tell which way he leaned if he leaned at all, but...

Undisturbed, I got to watch him read his book while Ken and Omi watched their movie and pretended I was actually trying to make inroads on the popcorn. Between the fading sunlight from outside and the kaleidoscope flickering of the television screen, Aya seemed unreal. Elegantly slim hands shimmered in the latter light as they turned the pages lit from behind him, like his brilliant hair, by the slanting rays of the former. His eyes were almost as sensitive as mine, so I knew he'd wait until the very last bit of light died before turning on the lamp and disturbing the kids. Or, hell, if he was feeling generous, he'd only close the book and wait for the movie to be over before turning it on. I stopped bothering with the popcorn and wished I knew what the hell I really wanted.

The light faded past Aya's range, and he reached for his bookmark slowly. With the same slowness, he closed his book. Neither Ken or Omi noticed him do so; as he had no doubt intended. His eyes were washed blue in the television light now, and it looked eerie beneath the jagged line of hair made indigo by that same light. I was frowning when he glanced at me, because I wondered why I thought it was sweet he was being nice to the younger set. One finely arched eyebrow lifted in silent question. I pulled one shoulder up into a shrug and shook my head only enough for him to see, then turned my eyes back to the movie I wasn't interested in watching. Nothing, Aya. Nothing at all was wrong. Not newly, anyway. I'd been crazy for a little over two years now.

It was just as well Ken and Omi carried on the animated discussion of the movie without recalling I had supposedly been watching it, too. With the light on and the heavy curtains pulled shut, they had the popcorn bowl on the table again. Aya had opened his book again so slowly, I don't think either of our housemates caught on that he had been disturbed and had let it pass with silent patience. Arguing over some plot point in the movie, the younger pair worked their way out, having forgotten that Aya or I was there. Lucky me. Trying to match Aya for stillness isn't as easy as it looks. But I didn't want to leave, and I didn't want to alert Aya that I was staring at him, either. Best if he thought I'd fallen--

"Yohji, was there something you wanted?"

So much for that. And what the fuck. What was that odd American phrase Aya used once? In for a penny, in for a pound? "Admiring the view," I muttered as I stood up and managed by some miracle of discipline I didn't know I had not to bolt through the doorway. I walked and had no trouble picturing Aya's expression. The widened eyes and partially relaxed jaw of startled confusion would give way to the slitted eyes, grinding teeth, and lined forehead of pissed off confusion. Glancing over my shoulder halfway through the door, I saw the changing expressions and smiled humorlessly. "Daydreaming about a good view, rather. Sorry to bother you, Aya."

He didn't believe me. No, Yohji was just messing with Aya's head. Sure. Mad, mad. But then Aya wasn't so stable either, was he? Maybe we could understand each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone questions my having Aya ignore a blaring movie to read, my soul-sister's mother does one better all the time. Not only can she read a book while everyone else in the room watches a movie, but she can later tell you what the movie was about and what happened in the book she was reading while the movie was playing. It's not a trick I've ever managed, but what one person can do, another can somewhere else.


	7. Beer Goggles

It was one of those rare kind of drunks where you _know_ you are, know you really should go home now and, amazingly enough, do so. I hadn't really thought getting drunk would help, anyway. If anything, it only worsened the problem that had sent me out. The idea of Aya dating anyone had started to hurt. I didn't like being jealous of a girl seven years younger than I am. I didn't like how that jealousy made me feel. How much it threatened my self-control.

Anyway, my entrance into the kitchen section of the Weiss home territory was remarkable only in that I _didn't_ trip over Momoe-chan's cat. Or the chairs. Or the walls. Don't ask.

I stopped, leaning heavily on the table and blinking widely at the stairs while my brain gauged how sodden my body was compared to my usual amount of common sense. My brain decided it was drunk enough to try the stairs (and hazard our bizarre floor plan) without a fully functional sense of balance. I pushed away from the table just as a soft noise alerted me from the stairs. I suppose I was startled; I crashed, rather abruptly, into a chair. Ass-first. Bully for me.

Aya appeared, pausing exactly two steps from the ground, where his head would still be above mine standing, and folded his arms across his slim chest. I blinked at his robe--a silky looking thing in an orange and red diffuse, non-pattern print, that shimmered in fascinating ways as he moved. Drunk as I was, I couldn't even tell where he ended and the cloth began. Seeing him and the robe like that reminded me of the one time I'd seen a campfire; the way it danced like an upright snake.

I knew I was staring, but hell--I was drunk; surely he was observant enough to figure _that_ out. I pushed out of the chair and tottered towards the stairs despite the changing set of Aya's features. The twilight eyes had narrowed with a faint line just beginning to define itself between them. The corners of his eyes, though unwrinkled, were drawing taut. But over it all was a thickened veneer of icy distance. That was Aya variety calm, cool disgust.

I wanted his _fire._ Not his ice.

Like I'd reached out for the flame years and years ago, I reached up to grasp Aya's chin and yank him down some. I watched, distantly, as his arms abruptly unfolded to snatch for balance against the railing. The cold wall between Aya and me crumbled in confusion. He didn't fear me. I'd just surprised the hell out of him. I watched his expression change again; the line was clearly present as his fine brows snapped together over eyes even more narrow than seconds ago. Pay dirt. Aya was _furious_ with me.

When I pulled him down that last two inches to kiss that oh-so-tempting mouth--parted on a comment I was sure would be impressively scathing--I began pressing against him and wrapping my free hand around his upper arm. He shoved forward with a shout muffled by my own alcohol tainted mouth and, upsetting my already precarious balance, knocked me down. I kept my hands locked where they were, dragging him down with me--painfully, I'm sure. His pale, pale skin bruised just as easily as I'd always thought. I was sober enough to notice, and just too drunk to care. I didn't even care that I'd knocked the breath out of myself with that stunt. A very livid Aya, wriggling on my stomach where _he'd_ landed, had not one word to say. Nothing but the angry burn of his body struggling against mine. I pulled his chin down for another hard kiss; all bruising lips and probing tongue.

I hoped Aya liked whatever I'd been drinking before I left that last dive.

It stopped him, anyway. I let us both up for air and stared up at him. I could get away with it this once, probably, because I was drunk. The fiery robe had come undone, framing only the bare skin that had been underneath. His milky skin had flushed; not from desire but exertion. It didn't really matter. Watching his chest move, bruised mouth open to breathe, while his naked, if unexcited, body straddled mine under that shining robe--that was enough. All the alcohol in my blood would allow, probably.

I let my hands uncurl from his chin and arm and watched him scramble backward. It still wasn't fear in the set of his eyes. Anger, confusion, embarrassment--those were there. I curled up on my side, watching the shadows change the color of his robe as he belted it back into place. My eyes closed, picturing, for just a minute or three, what it would have been like to keep going.

I don't know when I feel asleep, but the asshole just left me there to stiffen up overnight. I guess I deserved it. I wonder how much sleep Aya lost trying to convince himself I was too drunk to know exactly what I was doing, touching and looking at. But I remember. The burning imprint of his body is still etched along my body from chest and groin. The image of him shimmering in the darkness like fire is outlined on the back of my eyelids. Those and the stiff muscles were the only clues I had that I _hadn't_ dreamed the whole mess up. But I've always trusted my memory. I never forget. Even when I should.


	8. Hell's Dance

I came awake by stages, enjoying the opportunity Sundays offered to sleep in--and sleep without pajamas since no one would come to wake me. The sun was behind friendly clouds leaving the world cozily grey cast so I could go about it even more slowly than normal. About one-quarter awake, I'd decided a shower _could_ wait and focused steadily on the nothingness that brought sleep.

That's when something began intruding. But it was rhythmic, so I blotted it out. Omi's stereo, I thought, although some nagging corner of my mind told me it was coming from the wrong direction. Then, very loudly and very distinctly, someone started shouting in English and that previously soothing rhythm jarred up into a volume that rattled my fuzzy brain in my skull.

Still at least half asleep, I tried jumping out of bed, ended up falling, decided whoever was attacking couldn't have heard me over the noise they were making, and grabbed my gloves and wire. While I didn't bother with clothes, I did use every foul word I knew. Aya's voice was now shouting along with the noise downstairs. He _remembered_ his English classes? All my still sleeping brain could come up with clearly was a vague thought that he was as scary in English as he was in Japanese.

I skulked down the stairs, coming awake _now_ to realize that it wasn't an attack. No, some oh-so-kind soul had his stereo blaring up at ninety decibels. I let the wire slip back into my watch. Now flatly ignoring the fact that I was naked, I growled my way down the lower stairs and padded into the living room to start laying into--

And then my brain stopped.

Aya, obviously incapable of hearing my sudden strangled noise, was dancing in the middle of the disarrayed living room--everything was shoved against the walls. An unfamiliar portable CD player was on the coffee table. The black flyleaf in the jewel case beside it didn't have a name that I could see, but it didn't matter too much. My eyes moved--I swear it was unwillingly--back to Aya's sinuously moving body. His eyes were closed tight, but... But the expression on his face was so clear. The only time I'd seen the whole of it involved outside of anger. _Pain;_ hollowed cheeks, deep line formed between elegant brows, mouth open to inflect the words of the new song playing on that damnable CD player, bitter, bitingly harsh...

Oh, _shit,_ but I wanted, for a heart stopping moment, to reach out and tell him it'd be all right.

I did step forward--some days I think I'm part moth--and reached to touch Aya and join his dance. No, I still wasn't entirely awake. I hesitated with my fingers only inches from him when some belated sixth sense finally informed him that he wasn't alone. Or maybe he was just acknowledging the world that boxed him in and filled the words of a song with sullen savagery.

If eyes are the window to the soul, then I almost wish I hadn't been watching for his to open. All I saw reflected in those eyes--eyes that reminded me of nothing so much as a summer sunset over the sea--was Hell. Nothing of Aya, nothing of me, of the room we stood in. Only the space of a wasteland where living things had died a long, long time ago.

The moment snapped; the windows became flashing, angry eyes and the frame became a face that might as well have been wood. Maybe I dreamed the edge of confusion that seemed to creep in when Aya realized that I was staring, that I was standing there as naked as _he_ had been after last night's scuffle in the kitchen. Would he kiss back if I just took one more step forward and did it? Would it be as easy as it was with women? Or would he drop kick my naked ass into tomorrow?

It felt like an eternity before Aya turned and walked to the CD player. The music died under a deceptively gentle touch from one of his china-pale hands. He said nothing as he removed the black and silver printed CD from the player and replaced it in the jewel case. I watched just as silently as he unplugged the machine and carefully wrapped the cord around the handle. When he picked both up, I forced words around the inexplicable knot in my throat. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Thought we were under fire, and, well...uh... Sorry. Just sorry."

I fled.


	9. Mending

Aya was sitting cross-legged on the dryer. The bendy-light clamped to the doorless cabinets overhead had been turned to point past his head at his hands. The dryer was silent under his rear end, but the washer was racketing fit to wake the dead, as per normal. On top of the washer, sitting so it wouldn't roll off with the vibration, was a spool of medium blue thread. Looming behind that was a sewing kit.

Pulled over his left arm, Aya had Ken's latest pair of ripped jeans, and, in his right, he had a threaded needle.

I stopped on the landing of the stairs and blinked at him, startled that he had Ken's jeans, let alone that he was mending them. After a moment, he deigned to acknowledge my presence. His hands paused in their minute work, and those brilliant eyes lifted to meet mine. "Did you need something Yohji? I'm not blocking your door."

"The hell are you doing with Ken's jeans?" I shuffled out of the minimal landing to lean against the racketing washer and studied him.

"I believe I am mending them."

Damn bastard always gets one up on me. "I can see that, Aya, but I thought Momoe-chan handled that like the wash."

"Momoe-san can barely thread a needle, let alone follow a straight line. Her eyes are much worse than her prescription and have been for some time now according to Omi." His gaze fell to his needle and Ken's jeans with a minuscule lift of one shoulder. "I do not see the need to trouble her with our repairs as well as most of our washing when I can sew as well as she can with less effort, any more than Omi does."

"Wait, you mean you two do all the repairs? Why the hell didn't anyone tell me?" How had I _not_ noticed? I groaned inwardly, thinking about the pair of pants I'd dropped into the repair bucket that morning with a rip along the crotch seam. Picturing Aya fixing that--it made me feel all sorts of odd. Maybe it was the way those long, pale fingers of his visible hand splayed against the still dark cloth on the thigh of Ken's jeans, gracefully caressing. Definitely going crazy.

"Yes, we do. Is there a reason you needed to know? It's your load in the washer. While you're here, you can save Momoe-san the time of putting them in the dryer." Trust Aya not to get a damn thing. Somehow I managed not to wince when I found my invisibly repaired pants right on top of the washer's load. Great. Now I knew Aya had done it, and I could just picture that hand ghosting over the dark creme cloth of my pants. Maybe clutched around the zipper to hold the garment still...

Oh damn, this wasn't helping.

I finished dumping the clothes into the dryer as fast as I could, then reached for the controls--and stopped. The controls were on the panel at Aya's back. I was _not_ going to touch him. I couldn't trust myself, not with the new thought of where the vibration would be (hopefully) affecting Aya since he was sitting the way he was... Oh, _hell._ Setting one hand between his folded legs with acknowledged stupidity rather than any sort of courage, I leaned over his left knee and elbow to fiddle with the knobs until the machine thrummed into life under him. The needle had stopped halfway through the cloth, and the slim hand that held it was still against the barely faded denim. But those summer sunset eyes watched mine with the beginnings of an expression I didn't recognize. It looked like fear.

Stepping back, I pulled my hand from the top of the dryer without touching him. Without a word, I sorted out the second load from the laundry basket. Aya still hadn't moved by the time I had finished putting the load in the washer. I looked up after turning it on and stared back at him. I swear I never would have given in to the temptation if I hadn't heard Omi banging through the kitchen door just then. With Omi likely to come up at any moment, I couldn't forget to stop.

I leaned forward--guiltily setting that hand where it had been in the center of his crossed legs--and smothered whatever protest he'd been about to fire at me with a demanding kiss. He went rigidly still; eyes wide with that nameless emotion. I would have called it terror now. Then the anger came, burning away the vulnerability, and Aya's hand abandoned the needle to shove me away. I didn't fight the shove, instead I let it pull my hand from between his legs--brushing against the warmth of his groin in the process--and land me against the railing opposite him. We stared at each other across the new distance, neither of us having one word to say, but I started rubbing my hand. From somewhere I called up a smile I was sure couldn't be at all convincing as Omi's heavy sneakers started pounding up the steps behind me. "Sorry, Aya. Thought a reward was in order for all the hard work, you know."

If I hadn't been watching his face so closely, I would have missed the flickerings ghosts of expressions that asinine crack caused. The only clear one was a fury the likes of which I hadn't yet seen from Aya before. I flinched as Omi hit the landing and stopped to blink at both of us. His book bag was hung over his shoulder as he glanced between us. Must've had a lot of homework to bring the whole thing up to his room. "Aya-kun, is there much more mending to do?"

How Aya managed to speak in a level voice, I didn't want to know. It scared me more than the idea of his very personally directed fury. "No, this is the last."

I glanced over my shoulder at Omi, rubbing the hand still, and looked back at Aya. One-way ticket to insanity; that's what my life was. I could only pray Omi didn't understand the tension he could obviously feel. Looking at the floor, I pushed myself away from the railing and stepped past Omi towards my room. "Sorry for bothering you, Aya. I'll just stop teasing you now."

I was proud of myself. I didn't run.


	10. Truth Hurts

The problem had started with the lead. It's not like I don't believe Aya can take care of himself. I _firmly_ believe he can. If someone's going to be hurt on an assignment, statistically, it's going to follow this order: Omi, me, Aya, Ken. That's just how it _works._ But Omi's hacked police report promised Ouka's friend's boyfriend was probably going to be able to rip us apart with that potluck stew his genetic code was about now.

And Aya wanted to try talking to him alone. Ken rubbed his chin, worry clear under the carefully neutral expression. Omi was biting his lip, but, hell, everyone knew better than to argue with Aya. That left me.

So, knowing it was a mistake, I grabbed Aya's arm and vented my supreme annoyance--never say fear--on the ice block I'd once thought of as understandable. "What're you gonna do, Aya, when the box breaks?"

Ken and Omi faded into the background of my awareness for the moment. They wouldn't understand why I was coming at him from left field with something that made no sense. They wouldn't understand my sudden death wish, either. One did not pick fights with Aya unless you were Ken, because Ken in a rage was about the _only_ thing that could knock Aya flat. The other two, I knew, would be blinking at me, wondering just what the hell this meant and what it had to do with Aya's crazy plan. Why, everything and nothing at all, guys. Aya, though, had gone unearthly still under my grip. Those summer sunset eyes widened in comprehension.

_He_ knew what I meant. _He_ understood.

What I hoped was an unreadable barrage of expression to the others flickered double-time across Aya's features--his knowledge that I could read him, that I could tell the others and therefore destroy his meticulous arrangements for sanity. I suddenly had the answer to any number of questions. Ironically--if predictably--the most important was, those so-expressive eyes would stay open during sex. The second was that he was going to sock me.

I let him go.

In that endless pause before the punch came, I winced, changing the final strike zone from my nose to my cheek. Ken shoved me out of the way while I blinked the dazzle dots out of my eyes. Omi squeaked and grabbed Aya's other arm. He didn't have to; Aya didn't move after that sole rejection of my smug insult. He just stood there, still under Omi's hands, except for the fast rise and fall of his chest. He was panting as if we'd been going around the practice room for the last hour.

I rubbed my cheek gingerly, studying his expression with more care than I'd needed to use for some time. Pensive, horrified, lost. My only consolation for continuing to rub salt in his wounds was that I think he knew just how difficult it was for me to keep talking. "Roofs collapse, walls tear apart, and floors break, Aya. What're you gonna do?"

"Shut up, Yohji." That fatally beautiful face closed down into a mask even I couldn't read as he shrugged Omi off. He headed for the back door, tense as my wire around someone's throat. I blinked at Omi and Ken. Omi's had the beginnings of comprehension in his face. Oh, great. If he tried that psychobabble shit on Aya, Aya would hate me. Not that Aya needed more reasons to hate anyone, _especially_ me, but...

I made tracks for the door behind Aya, glaring Ken into shutting his trap. "Lemme handle this, guys, I started it."


	11. A Bridge To Anywhere

"The problem with you, Aya--" I tucked a cigarette between my teeth an hour later, lit it behind my cupped hand, and kept talking. "--is you take things way too fucking personally. Not everything is intended to just especially to piss you off." I tapped my fingers on the railing of the overpass we stood on, leaning on it, beside the statue-still figure I'd spent that hour following around Tokyo. I did not glance in his direction. I kept my eyes steadily focused on the cars below the overpass. My ears were focused on that special white noise symptomatic of every inner city.

"Hm." Now I turned to glance at him. Both fine red eyebrows were high, and his almost suspiciously wide eyes were drawn tight at the corners: thoughtful, bitter contemplation. _He_ didn't look up from his study of the late evening traffic. "Wasn't it?"

"No. Not the way you think, anyway." I sighed and flipped the cigarette in my fingers, butt towards him as an offer. He looked like he needed a night of drunken debauchery, really, but it was more likely Manx would come begging me for a night of kinky sex. Anyway, the cigarette drew his attention away from the traffic. I wasn't entirely surprised when he accepted. That he didn't choke on it, though... "You smoke?"

"Sometimes." A single slim shoulder rolled in a negligent way as he brought the cigarette up again. He shifted against the railing, leaning his left hip and elbow against it with a very slight sigh. "Why did you follow me?"

I lit a second cigarette and propped it in the corner of my mouth while I thought about how, exactly, to phrase why I'd gone chasing Aya around. "To apologize for saying all that in front of the kids. I hadn't meant to embarrass you."

"Hm." He took a harder drag on the little white cylinder. I followed its light as he lowered it, flicking ash into the wind. Eyes closing, his free hand came up to rake his hair back. The hand paused with his palm to his forehead. It hid his expression from me. I wondered if it was intentional or if he just had a killer headache. Then something occurred to me.

"Hey, Aya. You never buy cigarettes when it's your turn for groceries." I blinked, eyes lifting back up to his face. The hand fell, revealing an expression I'd never seen before; the corners of his eyes were crinkled, but no line formed like a canyon between them, and the corners of his mouth were just barely twitching upward. He was _laughing_ at me.

"No. As little as I smoke, they would get stale before I needed them again. I took them from your supply." With that, he pushed away from the railing and headed back down the walkway.

"You...you...cigarette gremlin! I yelled at Omi about that!" I shoved myself after him with as much indignity as I could manage. Well, I _had_ yelled at Omi once, before he tossed my pack in the trash and reminded me how long he'd been in the assassin business. _I like to breathe easily when running, Yohji-kun._ Unlike me, I was supposed to have understood.

"Cigarette gremlin? I thought I was a box man." Christ on a pogostick, someone remind me to make Aya punch me more often if it makes him crack jokes.

"You _thief._ This is my _air._ " I waved my pack around pointedly and mock-snarled. This whole day felt surreal. But this was...comfortable. Comforting. I wondered if I was dreaming. "You breath stealer."

"The English have a superstition about that. Cats steal the breath from sleeping babies." Aya glanced at me sidelong. His face had fallen back into that expression of contemplation. "Why did you say that?"

I fell quiet, puffing on my cigarette and watching the traffic skid along the road on the other side of the supports. Huh, why had I? It's not like Aya hadn't retreated into the box before when something stung too deep for him to handle. But I'd attacked the box itself... "I don't know. To make you think, I guess."

"What do you want from me, Yohji?" He turned off the bridge, heading the long way back to the shop.

I took a moment, fidgeting at the bottom of the bridge, while I decided whether I wanted to continue this conversation or not. I had the monstrous suspicion I was going to say something stupid again before this conversation was over; I never learn. I sauntered after him quickly to catch up. "You can apologize for stealing my cigarettes. Or else."

"They're just cigarettes, Yohji."

"Dammit, they were _mine._ I don't touch your coping mechanisms."

"No, you just smash them."

"That was low, Aya."

"Hm." Aya stopped at the next corner--trust Aya to pay attention to the damn traffic laws--and _looked_ at me. "And if I don't apologize?"

Remember what I said about me saying something stupid again? Furious with him for no better reason than he was right, I said the first thing that came to mind. "I might kiss you again."

Those eyes that almost matched the twilight descending around us widened comically for a split second. Then that line dug its place between the fine brows that snapped together over eyes that narrowed to damn near slits. Aya was furious with me again. I jerked my gaze away. "Oh, look, our turn to walk." Then I practically fell off the curb and headed for the other side like a drowning man heads for shore.

"Yohji!"

"See ya back at the shop, all right? Got things to do, you know how it goes." Yes, I was running again. I am a coward. I've never pretended to be a hero. That's Ken's job. Or Omi's. Not mine.


	12. Incubus

When I trotted into the living room, my feet hurt. I was not used to wandering around Tokyo on foot for hours under duress to not return. What duress, you ask? I'd be killed if I tried Aya's thin patience any further. Only training and focus kept both of us behaving through to the fight with those Schreient women and its aftermath. But if I had run into Aya before he had worked out his temper with Ken, I'd be a dead man. So after dumping my gear and showering, I was out on the street with the morning light, nevermind my shift at the shop.

Cowards are frequently safe, living people, you know.

What hurt more than my sore feet ever could was my soul, if I still have one. Two years ago, I watched my reason for living die. I was recruited into this farce of living, oh so easily, because it offered me a chance at what I wanted more than life. _Revenge._

I'd gotten that revenge, too, less than a month ago. Not long after that, I started thinking about other things. That dead place inside slowly revived with the thick weight of her death gone like a shadow at sunrise. I guess I felt like I could take a second shot at being human under even these bizarre circumstances. And there was Aya. Beautiful, tempting Aya. I was almost certain I could get somewhere with him, too. The pause between his surprise and his fury, each time I touched or teased him, hinted that he might actually be interested.

I'd seen her face last night. Watching the dawn brighten over the city's heights, I decided I was losing my mind. She was dead. Dead. Damn Schreient woman behind her mask was not Asuka. Could not _be_ Asuka. I still found myself in that shabby cafe on the waterfront, staring at the seat across from me. Hoping so hard she would come I ordered her coffee. Knowing so completely that she would never come, I went home with only a sleepless, needy dream of her.

If there is a soul left in this husk, whatever new growth it had been trying to start was stunted last night.

So when I trotted back into the living room at dusk, I felt nothing but the knives of pain and exhaustion. Omi was sitting at the coffee table while Ken slept hard on the couch behind him. Omi looked up from whatever he was doing on his laptop with those wide, bruisable eyes, and I wanted to punch him for the pity in them.

"Hey, Yohji-kun. I was worried about you." That meant I should feel guilty for worrying him, which in turn was to remind me I'd missed my shift, and one of them had had to cover, and Omi already had a lot to do since we weren't helping him do the tracking. Ah, youth.

He followed my studied, frowning appraisal of Ken's only slightly battered condition with a sigh.

"I broke them up, Yohji-kun. It wasn't like how they normally fight. Aya-kun was really mad. And Ken-kun was already hurt." Too long. We'd known each other too long if I was that easy for him to read. I translated those innocent-seeming three sentences to mean Omi thought this must be my fault, as I had been the one not there today. And I should be the one to fix it, not our injured partner.

I rubbed a hand up the side of my face, then pushed it back through my hair while I studied Ken's new bruises. The visible ones, anyway. Figured. Aya would have been mad at me, but with me gone, Ken was handy. And Ken could take punishment better than Omi. At least Aya wasn't abusing the frighteningly innocent. Just the trying hard to be innocent.

"Aya-kun is cooped up in his room." By which Omi meant to reiterate that he thought I should fix this somehow. Right now, preferably. Sure. I could do that. Right. I moved past him into the kitchen, still without a word, and walked up the two flights of stairs. At Aya's door, I hesitated. After an eternal minute, I opened his door without bothering to knock.

I don't know how long I stood in his doorway after I pushed it open. I just wanted to watch the way he turned the fragile pages so carefully or the way he held the book so close to his nose like he couldn't quite see the tiny American style letters. Even the way the headphones sat, so out of place on his head, was something worth noticing. After an age, I watched him move one pale hand to grab the scrap of blue ribbon on the table beside him and tuck it between the pages. My eyes followed that same hand when they reached for the miniature stereo's off button. So. He wasn't intending to ignore me all night.

"What do you want from me, Yohji?" I could hear the unspoken _now_ in the faint wary/exasperated inflection of his repeated question. I studied his face; the line was faint between his eyes, the corners of said crinkled equally faintly, but there was a dullness in the set of those brilliant eyes themselves. Tired, but only enough to tame the fury down to peevishness. I don't learn. I wished Omi had waited longer before disturbing the sparring match. I don't know why the kid expected _me_ to un-piss off Aya. That's always been Ken's job.

"Don't you know?" I pulled my right hand from the door, folding it across my chest with its mate. Yes, it was a purely defensive gesture. I kept my gaze on his face. I wondered what he saw there. Desperation? Insanity? Stupidity? I certainly felt like all three words were applicable. Not only a coward but a fool. That had been _her_ face. I was so sure... And it couldn't have been. "You never apologized for stealing my cigarettes."

He grunted--or snorted, I've never been quite sure how to identify that particular sound of his--and that telltale line deepened, approaching anger now. He opened his book again. He was going to ignore me. I wondered, for a brief instant, if I was going mad. Both were so cold. So, so cold. She in death and he...just because he _could_ be. My hands dropped, and I stepped through the door uninvited. I closed the door without looking. I fumbled for the lock the same way. He had to...and I had to see it... I _needed_ it.

And there it was; his _fire_ tearing through his confusion and exhaustion. "Or else, Aya."

"Get out." I walked across the room towards him. Open eyes; a volcano at night. I pulled the book out of his hands, carefully, and set it on the table, then my hands fell to the armrests on either side of him. I almost wished the lamp was a candle, splaying a false image of the fire _under_ his skin across the surface. But I could picture the pulsing flame anyway, rippling across that translucently pale skin. The fury was almost tangible now. It'd take so little... "This isn't funny, Yohji. Get out. Now."

"Or else?" I cut off whatever answer he might have had with my mouth over his. I could almost hear the clockworks in his brain grind to a halt. He couldn't blame _this_ on me being drunk. And it wasn't teasing anymore. I pressed just a bit harder, licking the soft lips all too often compressed into a thin line. My right hand fell from the armrest to his waist and slid upward to hold him as tightly as I could and stay standing. Besides. Down would end the fun a little too soon, I knew.

For maybe ten seconds, I got a glimpse of just how good this particular fantasy could be. How cleansing.

Then my other hand slipped to catch in his jeans' waistband. His mental gears started up again, and both elegant hands reached out--one at my shoulder, the other at my elbow--to shove me away. I tightened my grip; he might have the leverage, but I knew he still wasn't ticked enough to hurt me. Not much longer, though. His hands tightened painfully as his mouth jerked away from mine. His breath was as ragged as mine, but his was all indignant fury. Beautiful, in its way, that harsh panting gasp. I lowered my head to his throat, sucking lightly, trailing over the soft skin until his chin jerked down. I moved my kiss to his earlobe with a cautious nibble.

I could almost hear his control crack. All that pent up fire slammed into me through his hands, shoving me backwards onto the floor, but my grip on his jeans and back dragged him with me, straddling me as he had that drunken night in the kitchen. This time, though, I didn't get a chance to admire the view. The punch came too quickly, but I didn't let go. I just yanked him down against me with the hand on his back and rolled over, catching one of his hands, at least, against the floor as I did so. I did nothing so crude as to grind my erection into his groin, although the urge was there and so very strong. Somewhere in my brain an alarm was going off, telling me this had gone quite far enough. Aya was still squirming under me, trying to find the leverage to hit me again. Incubus. I'd never sleep right again. Struggling to keep his free hand away, I lowered my mouth to his forehead, planting one light kiss there before jerking myself off of him.

"I think--" I winced at the sound of my voice, hoarse with need. I dragged myself to my feet, not daring to look at him as he drew himself up against the table. "--you know what I want. Good night, Aya."

It was time for a long, long shower. Nevermind cold, it wouldn't work this time. Might never work again.


	13. Soup Or Sports

Ken was ruffling through the paper the next day, when I shuffled sleepily into the kitchen on a direct route to the coffee pot. I knew it had to be fresh, because Aya still had a mug sitting at his right hand from which he took an occasional drink between reading the sports section. He had it on the foreign blurbs, weirdly enough, but I grabbed my gag mug and filled it without really thinking about it, anymore than I had the time with the cheap chocolate chips. Ken had looked up at me, muttering something that took a few seconds to register. "Yohji, you seen the sports section? I wanna check the soccer scores."

"Huh? Oh, Aya has it." I blinked at Ken. It didn't even occur to me that he should have been able to see that for himself. Aya's the only one ever _really_ awake before ten o'clock. I half fell into the chair between them at the breakfast table, wondering if it was worth the effort to try talking Aya into cooking. I'd mauled him last night, sure, but he didn't seem put out with me this morning. He'd made the coffee, judging from the taste. A full pot, yet. Not just enough to get _him_ through the morning.

"What? Hey, Aya, gimme the sports section." Ken made a grab at the paper in Aya's hands. The redhead simply leaned back out of Ken's reach and continued reading without a word. I snickered and kept drinking my coffee. Eyes crinkled, but no lines, fingers steady around the delicate paper; Aya was only amused this morning. Ken scowled. "Yohji, make Aya gimme the paper."

"Aya, give the boy the paper." I eyed Aya with bleary amusement. Well, this meant he was either not taking me seriously at all, or he was taking me _very_ seriously and treating me accordingly.

"When I'm done, he can have it." He didn't even look up.

"Yohji!" Ken slouched back in his chair, glaring at me. "I'm not a boy. Gimme the paper, Aya! You don't even like sports!"

Omi shambled into the kitchen looking even more bleary than I felt. He tripped his way into a chair and collapsed face first onto the table.

"If your girlfriend's that much of a wildcat, Omi, maybe you should reserve her for the weekend?" I watched, silently gleeful, as Aya blinked at the sports section in his hands, and Ken choked on his coffee.

Omi's head raised up to glare at me. It would have been more effective if his hair hadn't been sticking out in random directions. "She's not my girlfriend, Yohji-kun."

"Oh, so she's your one night stand? Aya, how much would it take to bribe you into cooking breakfast?" Violet eyes flicked up from the newspaper, briefly. He wasn't sure how to take my question, I guess, after last night's...incident. Ken's eyes kept making the rounds between us. Really, he should know by now. Finish the first coffee mug _before_ trying to make sense of anything your roommates say. It was a universal law.

"Yohji-kun, my computer is not a one night stand or my girlfriend. She's a machine." Omi's head landed on the table, obviously intending on staying right there for a long nap.

Ken and I watched him for a long moment after glancing at each other. Ken, after a long pause, asked the question. "Omi, why do you call your computer female?"

Omi's head lifted again, blinking owlishly at first Ken, then me. It took a second or two to become a glare. "Yohji-kun, this is your fault." He dropped his head again. I just smirked at him.

"Omi, make Aya gimme the sports section." Ken made another grab himself for the paper in question, earning himself a warning glare over the top before the newspaper came up higher, blocking out Aya's view of us.

Omi blinked slowly, looking at the section of newspaper in Aya's hand. Sleepy as he was, there was an extra blink as he noticed what _part_ Aya was reading. Yawning, Omi brought both hands up to the table, one settling under his chin. "Aya-kun, why are you reading the foreign sports section?"

Aya lowered the newspaper and looked at Omi. Omi looked back. I blinked down at my coffee. Hmm, why was he? Without a word, Aya folded the sports section and handed it to Ken before standing and heading for the fridge to make breakfast. My morning was looking up. He made coffee, and now he was making breakfast. Aya wasn't going to kill me for last night. Or tell on me. Momoe-chan shuffled into the kitchen doorway, right about then, with a perplexed look on her face. In one hand she had a pair of black and gold tiger striped bikini underwear, and at her side was our laundry neatly folded into a basket. "Excuse me, boys, but which one of you do these belong to?"

Ken and Omi looked at me. I frowned, leaning over the back of the chair to look. "Not mine. Sorry, guys. Time to fess up, Ken."

Before Ken could do more than sputter, Aya paused in making breakfast to look at the underwear in question. "I'm sorry, Momoe-san, I thought I had marked those before putting them in the hamper."

As one, we all turned to stare at Aya, who went back to making breakfast as if he'd said nothing out of the ordinary. Well, at least the male segment of the room did. Momoe-chan nodded and dropped the scrap of cloth in the basket. "I thought so, because they were about the right size, but I thought it better to make sure."

Aya glanced up. A bland relaxation pulled his features into what I decided must be a look of Aya variety wicked amusement. He and the old woman were messing with our heads. Or at least Aya was. "Thank you, Momoe-san. I would have wondered where they were. I'll check my clothes to make sure the new ones have been marked. I didn't mean to trouble you."

"Oh, it's no bother, dear." With that, Momoe-chan smiled and shuffled slowly back out of the kitchen to deliver our laundry to our rooms. Omi blinked at each of us in turn, then lowered his head to the table. After a moment, we heard a light snoring. Ken, nervously watching Aya, opened the paper to the soccer pages, and copied Aya's earlier attempt at blocking us out with it. Thus made safe, I kept staring at Aya, picturing him with nothing but that scrap of cloth on. I didn't even notice how very much I was staring until Aya set a bowl down in front of me, picked up his coffee mug, and left the kitchen. I blinked down at the miso soup wondering if I was dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast is not breakfast without miso-shiro (miso soup), and it has entered into many sayings. Don't use it, but for example, "ore no miso shiro wo tsukutte kureru?" or "will you make my miso soup?" meaning "Will you marry me?" -- Hatcho Miso, Japanese traditional foods (http://www.yamasa.org/acjs/network/english/newsletter/japan_guide_06.html)


	14. Obsession

I leaned against his door, exhaling deeply, though I did not touch the knob immediately. I knew he was in there, because Ken was out with his soccer brats and Omi had shouted something about making enough dinner-for-everyone-and-don't-wait-up before dashing off to some club meeting or other at school. We all coped in different ways. I didn't touch the doorknob because Asuka's ghost wouldn't let me. Asuka's dead face was everywhere I looked. Everywhere but Aya. Aya had only Aya's statue-perfect face. I shuddered and watched my hand creep towards the knob then pull back once, twice and more. I wondered what he was thinking, in there, of what he heard. Finally, my fingers reached the knob and--clenched to whiteness around it--twisted it.

Aya was leaning back against his headboard with his knees bent so that the notebook on his lap was almost perpendicular to his bed. He stopped writing in it as soon as I opened the door, but he didn't look up right away. He waited until I'd shut the door behind me. So I leaned now against the inside of his door. Watching him. He was still an incubus. I wanted him more now than I had before watching him almost die. Before knowing that woman wearing that face so like Asuka's _had_ died. Before knowing I had saved him from the target's grasp and left her to the burning mansion.

Slowly, his long hands capped the pen, folded the notebook and set both on the end table. He swung around until he was facing me with his socked feet on the floor. He watched me back. The line between his fine eyebrows was visible but not a chasm between reason and fury yet. Vivid eyes were narrowed but far from being crow's-footed slits. The late afternoon had deepened to early dusk before he decided I wasn't going to talk first. "I would ask what you want, but I believe I already know."

"You going to punch me if I kiss you again?"

"Why do you want to kiss me, Yohji?" His expression didn't change as I pushed away from the door and moved towards him. His chin did lift, though, to keep meeting my eyes. I didn't answer him. I didn't think I could explain it to him. I stopped in front of him and dropped to my knees, bringing me to just under his seated height. His face was in shadow now and that brilliant hair gleamed like a dying fire in the faded sun. Oh so cautiously, I lifted a hand to touch his shadowed face and stilled when he pulled back. In the dim lighting from his single window, it was hard to tell if that was exasperation or honest confusion widening his eyes even as that emotion deepened the line. "Yohji."

"Will you?" I let the hand fall to his thigh, rested it there. He watched it rather than me for a long, long moment. As cautiously as I'd reached up, I leaned forward, closing the distance between his mouth and mine. I hesitated only when he looked up, eyes--shaded grey in the dim light--widening further as he saw how close I was. It wasn't like he hadn't had time to think about it; to think that I wanted him badly enough to deal with his violence to get even the damnable, unsatisfying kisses I'd gotten so far and to think how good I could probably make it for him. He had time to stop me as I closed that last distance finally. I didn't have to hear the answer he mumbled into my kiss. I got it from the warm, light touch on my shoulder, and the slow way his mouth opened above mine like an invitation.

My hands went under his shirt to lightly trace over scars and muscle and the smooth softness of his skin between the two. Breaking the kiss, I pushed the shirt up until he pulled it off himself. My tongue and mouth became crawling things over his chest, taking in as much of that precious fire as he was going to let me have. I let one hand slide over the seat of his jeans, holding him through the cloth. The other hand teased its way down from Aya's navel until I was holding him there, too, through the denim. My tongue followed the latter hand and stopped to tease around his navel. I reveled in every little twitch of surprised pleasure. Hooking my fingers in his belt loops, I pulled him off the bed to straddle my angled lap.

"Yoh-" His startled hiss cut off abruptly when he figured out the advantages of being so close. His hands started working on my clothes, shoving them out of the away with more impatience than skill because he didn't want to take the time to get them off. I let him, concentrating instead on sucking a bruise on the pale skin of his neck and kneading his ass. When he finally got my pants open, one slim hand slipped between the cotton briefs and the skin of my stomach to wrap around my erection. I couldn't stop myself from bucking into the touch, pushing his hand and my erection into his groin. I was sure the grip I had on his ass was almost painful. His voice--that soft, dark chocolate purr--murmured against my ear even as I forced myself to ease up. I didn't want to. I wanted to bruise him, wanted to see them tomorrow, and know I did it. "Yohji. Why?"

"Obsession, Aya. I can't think of what could be better than fucking you raw. Haven't been able to for so, so long..." I whispered it against his skin as I pushed him to the side and followed him down to the floor, looming over him. I wanted him under me. Not like a woman. Nothing like the damn ghosts in my head. But under me. _Mine._ Those summer-sunset eyes were watching me, almost wary though he still didn't offer any protests. With deliberate slowness, I unfastened the button of his jeans and hooked a finger around the zipper. My nail lightly scraped the bare skin of Aya's erection as I pulled the zipper down that way, and, oh God, his face--I'd been right. Everything was there for me. He wanted it. Wanted me as much as he feared me in that moment. Capturing his hands, I bent over him and kissed my way down his body. I didn't stop at his navel this time. No, I kept going until I was licking the sides and head of his erection. He was as sweet and bitter there as his voice promised.

As volatile as I'd always known he should be, Aya jerked under my mouth, hissing--or was it purring?--with frustration. The hands I had pinned to the floor under mine twisted in my grip; his nails were gouging shallow, desperate scrapes against my wrists. I knew what he wanted me to do, and I wanted to do it. I just wasn't sure I could. I'd never been on the _giving_ end before. I wondered if he had, who it was, and if they would understand how crazy Aya made me feel.

Gingerly, I slipped my lips over the head of his erection, exploring the tightening looseness of his foreskin with my tongue. The nails clawing at my wrists became painful even as his hips jerked up, pushing himself deeper into my mouth. I started sucking more on the guess that it might keep me from gagging than the thought of how good it had felt when women did that for me. Aya appreciated it no matter the reason. We were both going to have marks in the morning. That thought made me shiver over him and pull my head up. He wasn't going to last much longer. Neither was I, for that matter, with that low, frustrated whine of his going right to my groin. "Shh. I know what you want, Aya. Soon."

His vivid eyes followed my every movement as I kissed my way back up his torso. I remembered the afternoon I saw Hell in his eyes. I like this expression better, earthly paradise, and I'd given it to him. I let his hands go and lifted myself partially off of him. He obeyed my silent commands to get on his hands and knees. Hooking my fingers around his jeans, I pulled them over his hips slowly and kissed my way down his back and over his ass. He jerked under me when my tongue started pushing at his cleft, but he let me get first one leg then the other free of his jeans and socks. My hands went everywhere, touching, fondling, even as I pushed my tongue just the shallowest bit inside of him.

That so intimate kiss made him tremble just a little bit. Between his needy tremble and recalling the few times I'd tried anal sex with a woman, I kept that exploring kiss up for a while. Wetter would most definitely be better, for him. His frustrated whine was starting to form real, if disjointed, pleas. Aya wasn't going to last much longer at all. Pulling away from this torture, too, I licked my way up his spine until I could suck on the back of his neck. I looked up to meet his gaze in the floor-length mirror on his door. Slowly, making sure he could see it in the mirror, I trailed one hand over his ribs and hip until they took my tongue's teasing path over his cleft. The shudder was visible, but just as obviously unconscious, when my fingers spread him. When I pushed my erection against his ass but not inside him, the whine became a growling purr. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, he shifted on his hands and brought his sword hand up to his erection, stroking the underside almost gently. "Don't tease me, Yohji."

Answering that with a growl of my own, I gave up trying to make it last any longer. It must have hurt, when I pushed in, because I saw the flicker of pain weaving through the pleasure. He still pushed back against me, hard, with an oath I hadn't thought he _knew_ let alone would use. I watched his hand on his thickened sex, watched the hungry fire playing across his face. I bit him, on the bruise I'd made, hard enough to draw just a little blood. Slipping my hand down his sweat-slick ribs, I watched my hand twine with his. His eyes were a nighttime volcanic eruption, then, as he jerked under me with his orgasm. Mine. All that fire, just for me, this time. Sucking at the tiny wound I'd allowed myself, I let myself ride him until and through my own orgasm.


	15. Look Don't Touch

The next day everything was...normal. Ken and Aya traded barely veiled insults (well, veiled on Aya's part) with smiles and that odd brotherly affection that had evolved out of their introductory fist fight. Omi was busy looking flustered under Ouka's attention. And I--I was flirting with anything female. Except the kids, anyway.

Ken took advantage of Aya's obvious good humor (and that good humor did wonders for my ego) to cajole the swordsman into an American football game after work. Aya hadn't a clue how to play soccer, we'd discovered via much teasing over a Monday's lunch, but he knew an absurd amount about football. I was, with each new tidbit, getting a clearer picture of pre-Weiss Aya. I still wasn't sure about his name, only that Aya wasn't it. I couldn't bring myself to care. He was Weiss, now, and mine.

Ken, grinning and leaning back on the table, tapped Omi's nose for attention, as Ouka never let up without hard intervention. "Hey, Omi. You and Yohji wanna play, too?"

"I would. I didn't have anything to do." Omi sounded as relieved as he did disappointed. Beside him, Ouka gave Ken an almost evil sideways look, then looked back at Omi already taking a deep breath to complain with. Our youngest florist braced himself. Poor little guy really had a thing for that girl. I'd never much cared for controlling women, but if Ouka made Omi happy...

Then what Ken said _processed,_ and my brain stopped. I knew enough about the game to know it involved a lot of physical contact. I'd been hard pressed to keep my hands off Aya all day as it was. A blur of orange, blue, and white leaned into my field of vision, and my attention snapped from the half-finished arrangement in my hand to Aya. Eyes crinkled, no line between them, the corners of his mouth were barely twitching upward--the bastard was laughing at me again. But with his eyelids lowered just a bit, it was a subtle, dark laughter. A challenge.

He didn't think I _could_ keep my hands off of him that long. He was expecting me to turn Ken down out of fear. Narrowing my eyes slightly before glancing at the younger half of Weiss across from me, I grinned. If it was a touch malicious, who could blame me? Ken only blinked at me and Aya once though his look of startled comprehension changed halfway through, back into his habitual grin, while Omi obliviously patted Ouka's hand off his arm again. "Sure, Ken. I don't have plans until late."

Aya's brilliant eyes widened only a little in acknowledgment of the jibe. His glance at Ken gave less away than he offered me, but Ken seemed intent on trying not to laugh. As if he'd understood the exchange. Disturbed, I stood, muttering something about needing saffron crocus, and headed to the cooler. Aya's startled blink had been more than worth my hasty retreat.

It wasn't long before I realized I wasn't alone with the flowers I was muttering imprecations at. I glanced over my shoulder, only faintly surprised to see Ken, not Aya, leaning beside the closed door. He watched me with a neutrally thoughtful expression. I looked back at the flowers picking out something that would go better with the arrangement I was working on than the saffron crocus. Ken shifted, folding his arms against the cold and shook his head. "Sheesh. With _you?_ "

"With me, what? Huh?" I blinked up at Ken, all too unfortnately certain I _did_ know.

"That little dance out there explained that bite-slash-hickey all over Aya's neck this morning, is all. You _do_ remember we always fight over the shower in the morning, right? Omi has school and getting _you_ up for the morning shift..." Ken shrugged, shivering away from the wall's chilling touch. Well, well, well--Ken had known Aya was gay? Will wonders never cease. I didn't bother controlling my expression shift. It was almost too instinctive to be defensive even with Ken seeming relaxed about it. The glare still made Ken laugh and hold out his hands defensively. "Whoa! Down, boy. If he's happy with the arrangement, it's hardly my place to say anything, whether I approve of his choice or not."

"Excuse me?" I took my turn to lean against the shelves glaring mightily at Ken with no effect at all. He was too used to Aya's for mine to work anymore.

"You're hardly model boyfriend material, Yohji. I wouldn't have thought..." He trailed off, shrugging, and turned. "Just don't play games with him. I'm not steppin' between you guys if the fuse is lit." With that, he slipped out the cooler door. Great. I'd officially been threatened by the brother figure now. Jesus Christ. Just wonderful. The day was not looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian flower language: saffron crocus -- do not abuse me or abuse not


	16. A Thousand Words

Yesterday's football game had been torture, leaving all of us too tired to do much of anything except fall on our faces and sleep straight until our shifts started. It had been fun, though, I had to admit. Getting to see Ken's expression as Aya reminded him for the thirteenth time that we were not playing soccer and kicking the ball was only an option every once in a while was worth every bruise gotten when Ken tackled me. Aya had not needed to remind Ken even once that football was a full body contact sport.

So it wasn't until late the next day that I was ambling along behind Aya with every intention of following him up to his room. I wanted him again. The laughing expression he gave me over his shoulder as he walked into the living room, en route to the kitchen and the stairs, made it harder to wait until we got to his room. He wanted me too, but that wouldn't stop him from laughing at me. I had come to him, after all. Not the other way around.

Aya stopped three feet into the living room, and I plowed right into him. Stepping around him, I saw Ken on the couch. In his hands was a sketch pad and a pencil. Nothing odd, Ken occasionally sat down to produce some stunning work for our holiday signs. But the drawing on that paper did not match the flower arrangement on the coffee table. "Ken, what the hell are you drawing?"

Without a word or even looking up, Ken's pencil left the paper and pointed both Aya and me to the window. Outside on the brightly lit corner, were a couple of older girls chatting merrily about whatever it is newly legal girls talk about. I started laughing. "Ken, Ken, Ken..."

A shallow line formed between Aya's eyes, and the fine wings of his eyebrows wrinkled with the most perplexed expression I had yet to see on that lovely face. "But, Ken, where are their clothes?"

Looking up at both of us finally, Ken only smiled.

At that moment, Omi fell loudly through the door behind me, and Ken quickly flipped a page in his sketch book down. On this page was the table arrangement. Aya siddled, letting Omi continue his fall toward the couch to deposit his backpack beside it as always. "Hi, guys. How did everything go?"

With his burden dropped, Omi saw the innocent flower drawing and leaned over the couch to get a better look. Ken obligingly turned the pad until Omi wouldn't fall over the couch arm to see it. "Oh hey, that's good, Ken-kun."

"Thanks, Omi. I was thinking I should practice before the next round of holidays started up." How Ken ever manages to look guileless, I'll never know.

"As if you ever need practice." Kicking the backpack for a moment, Omi bent down to snatch a couple of books and a binder from it. "I have homework. If you do anything else, show me later?"

"You got it, munchkin."

Omi gave Ken a withering look, snickered, and made a dash for the stairs in the kitchen. When he was gone, Ken flipped the page back to his drawing of the naked girls, starting to shape it with a skilled application of shading. Aya's adorably confused expression had only intensified, but it snapped into a glare quickly enough when I grabbed his arm and turned him forcibly towards the kitchen. "Good boy, Ken."

"Excuse me, Yohji, but I have higher moral standards than you do. Omi can look on the net or through your room if he wants porn. I'm not going to be his supplier." Gifting Ken with a rude gesture accompanied by a broad grin, I pushed the confused and reluctant Aya into the kitchen where he shrugged me off and went up the steps by himself.


	17. Aya, Sex Ed

Having left the door open for me to follow him inside, Aya stopped in the middle of his room. He faced me with his arms folded together across his slim chest and an almost threatening frown. Leaning against the door after I closed it, I started unbuttoning my shirt slowly. I took deep breaths to make the cloth move over my skin and watched his second attempt at glaring me down for the night fail. There were benefits to knowing exactly what you wanted from each other. I knew I could deflect his anger now, because he wanted me, too.

Stepping towards me, his hands unfolded to lay themselves flat against the wall on either side of the door at my back. His mouth met mine hard, forcing his tongue past my lips. If I had doubted before how far I wanted to take this, whatever it was, I didn't now. His hands joined mine in getting my clothes off when his mouth lowered to my throat and suckled there more gently than I'd done to him two days ago. "You know, Yohji," he murmured against my skin in that dark chocolate purr of his, "if we're going to do this often, we need to work on your technique."

"You didn't have any complaints about my technique Wednesday." I was concentrating my efforts on getting Aya's clothes to join mine in the puddle at our feet. "Seemed pretty satisfied with it, as I recall."

I could not have been more surprised to hear his laugh: low and touchably soft. He straightened just enough so that he could look up at me from beneath the jagged line of his hair, and the pit of my stomach tightened. "I'll have to concede that. But taking it with just saliva is... Not too painful usually, but it always leaves me a bit, hmm, sore."

So, there had been at least one person before. I'd figured so, but with Aya looking at me like that--I didn't know whether to thank this nebulous past lover or strangle him. Cupping Aya's cheek and having him turn to rub his face against my palm, I decided I would thank him, if I ever met him. I don't know what I'd have done if Aya had been some kind of skittish virgin Wednesday. "So I guess I should stock up on lubricant, eh?" Then his mouth was against mine, silencing whatever else I'd had to say.

When his clothes were with mine on the floor, he pulled away, leaving me to follow as he backed up to the bed. Just the very corners of his lips were curled upwards and his eyes were narrowed; a wickedly teasing expression. "I bought some today, since it was my turn to shop. If you'd get it out of my jeans..."

"Are you going to show me how you like it, Aya?" I pushed away from the door and bent over to pick up his jeans, slowly working through each pocket even though I'd felt which pocket the tube was in when I first grabbed them. He watched me with a deepening edge to his expression. Without a word, he lowered himself onto that painfully utilitarian bed and propped himself up on his elbows. With the tube in hand, I dropped his pants back to the floor and padded towards him. "Or should I just guess and try everything until I find what makes you beg?" Following him down until I knelt between his half-raised legs, I drew the cool plastic tip of the application tube down the taut skin of his stomach. His body was slowly flushing a light pink all over, but where I drew that tube down further over the top of his swelling erection, that flush was red. "C'mon, Aya, tell me. It was your idea to work on my technique."

With a low hiss, Aya snatched the tube from my hands. He didn't look at it, though, as he twisted the cap off and broke the seal. His glittering eyes held mine, instead, until I lowered them to watch him smear the clear lavender gel over his long fingers. I smiled, watching those fingers trail down his abdomen. They didn't stop at his erection, like I was hoping, but drew a path around the thickening base, then lower still under his scrotal sac. When they started teasing the ring of muscle I could just barely see from my angle, dipping in and out, I think I stopped breathing. I pulled my gaze up to his face. Eyes crinkled at the corners and narrowed, just that hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. A challenge again, Aya?

"Purple, huh, Aya? Grape? Think I need to be coaxed into licking you all over?" I traced one index finger through the gel, forcing that low, purring hiss from Aya once more. My hand, though, did stop at his erection to flicker, feather light, over the sensitizing skin. Not moving my gaze from his, I leaned forward to lap up the flavored gel all down his chest with my tongue. I followed the trail down until I was sucking and caressing, almost gently, at the base of his erection. My other hand came up to twist with Aya's hand at the curve of his spread cleft, brushing the constricted muscle, until my fingers were as slick as his. "So what now, Aya, hmm? How do you like it?"

"Watch, Yohji." His other hand pushed me back--there was a fine, ego-stroking tremor to those slim fingers, too--until he was satisfied I had a good view. Sitting up a bit higher and spreading his knees further, Aya started rubbing a calloused finger pad over the tender skin around that muscle to tease himself as much as to tease me. His left hand clenched tight around my shoulder as, groaning, he pushed the tips of two slick fingers inside himself. I think I stopped breathing again as he curled forward a little more, bracing against me, and started working those fingers around carefully. His bittersweet chocolate voice was thicker when he spoke again. "Just two. One won't be enough, three would be a bit much. It takes the fun out of it, if it doesn't sting just that little bit. But two is good, once you've got them good and wet."

He was going to kill me this way. Lack of blood flow to my brain. Lack of oxygen. Something. Forcibly breaking my stare at his teasing fingers, I met those volcanic eyes over the vastness of the inches separating our faces. The gel had cooled on my fingers, drying just a bit, but I wrapped my hand around his, without looking down, and tangled our fingers, pulling his free so I could play with this new toy myself. Slipping my still sticky first and second fingers a bit deeper than he'd gone himself, I rubbed my thumb up the soft skin above that muscle. It was strange to place things on another male body, but I knew I'd found what I was looking for with that questing thumb when Aya's short nails clawed deeper into the skin of my shoulder, and that wickedly beautiful voice gasped. It took him two tries before he could speak again. "Find that from the inside."

I let a knowing smirk warp my expression as I searched for that so-sensitive lump of flesh with the fingers hooked through that slowly relaxing muscle. He actually shuddered this time, chin jerking up hard enough to shake his eartails, when I found it, and I knew he'd drawn blood on my back. I let him rest for a few precious seconds before I started massaging it, torturously slow. His shudder repeated itself and I could feel the muscles in his hand grow taut with the effort not to tear into my shoulder. His other hand, smeared with the stickily darkening lavender gel, started teasing his erection. The purpling, sensitive tip peeked at me from a dark red sleeve of skin, glistening with moisture, but my attention was still focused on his eyes, his flushed face, and the way part of one eartail had managed to fall across the bridge of his nose.

Aya panted as I worked his ass, and he moaned as I knocked his hand away from his erection.

I would've bet I could have made him orgasm without touching his erection, by just stroking right where I was, inside him. But that wasn't how he wanted it. Somehow, watching that wary/needy expression fill his pleasure-dazzled features, I knew he didn't want me to learn that yet--how to literally make him beg for what he wanted. I held out one hand and lightened the other's shudder-causing massage. Aya's so-clever sword hand had trouble squeezing out more of the gel onto my palm. I rubbed the cold stuff into the sensitive underside of his erection. As if he couldn't keep himself curled up where he could watch my hands on and inside his body, he fell back against his pillow at that, gasping. "You're teasing me, Yohji."

"Damn straight I am, Aya. Purr for me again." I wouldn't make him beg, if it frightened him. No matter how much I wanted to hear him do so. Slowly, almost gently, twisting my hand around his pulsing erection and teasing him from the inside, I leaned down over him to suck and bite at the flesh over his ribs and stomach. I kept my eyes on his, watching the signs of each sensation and emotion in them. Everything, all for me, that fire. He bit my name out, all dark chocolate melting down my throat, when my teeth fastened over the marks I'd left Wednesday and sucked hard on them. I felt Aya's gel-slick hand move between our bodies. One long elegant finger dipped and circled around his navel before traveling towards his nipples. His hand at my shoulder and his body beneath me were tensing, tightening hard and fast. Deliberately, my massaging fingers shifted and pushed harder against the thin wall separating them from his gland.

And Aya came alive with his orgasm, arching against me with a strangled shout.

I removed my hands less gently than I'd intended, but those sunset eyes narrowed with smug satiation when I leaned over to lick his stomach clean of lubricant and his semen. The fingers of Aya's hand at my shoulder uncurled from the gouges they had left in my skin to trail down my chest and curl around my hip. His smugness took on the makings of a sleepy smirk as he pulled me forward. "Hands on the wall. You've made sure I have to wear that damn sweater for another three days. Your hands had better stay on the wall."

I wasn't sure whether I actually managed to laugh or if it was just a groan as I complied. It made me lean over him, putting my own straining erection within tantalizingly easy reach of that mouth. And, oh yes, I was grateful to whoever had had Aya before me. His mouth crawled over my flesh like he'd eat me alive, and I desperately hoped Ken hadn't come up to his room on the other side of the wall under my hands. I was clawing at it in an effort not to grab Aya's shoulders and fuck his mouth as hard as my body wanted to.

He had me shuddering now with the hollow suction of his throat and the writhings of his tongue down the mass of nerve endings on the underside of my erection. The slick, calloused fingers of his sword hand came up to tease my scrotum with cool circles of his fingers before working further back into the flesh behind them. Just one, hard push behind my sac, and my body disconnected leaving my brain in a haze of nothing but Aya's seaside sunset eyes and the pleasure of his mouth sucking me dry.

Either way, he let me pull him against my chest with a splayed and sticky hand over his navel when I collapsed beside him. He was asleep before I was; surprise, surprise. And that almost felt better than the sex.


	18. Murphy's Law

I trotted down the kitchen stairs, fresh from a shower. Still cursing Omi under my breath, I made a straight line for the refrigerator. I needed more than a beer, really, but who didn't after killing someone? I leaned against the counter and listened hard to the subdued late afternoon sounds. Odd how even cities quieted around dusk. The silence of the building let me know no one else had gotten back yet, and that worried me a bit. Ken and Aya were fastidious about cleaning their weapons after an assignment. Popping the can's top, I finally heard what I'd been waiting for: a car door slamming in the garage.

I set my can on the counter and pushed away from it to open the back door. I might as well start yelling at Omi as soon as he walked in. Damn kid was uncanny about killing, like it could only bother him on some kind of abstract level. Just as I reached the door, it slammed open with enough force to have cracked it against the counter edge. But since I had conveniently been in the way, it cracked me in the solar plexus and knocked me against the table. There I hitched up on the edge and tried to remember how to breathe. "Goddamnit, Aya, what was that for?"

Without a word the bastard stalked towards the stairs, leaving the open door and a trail of pure fury behind him. I blinked. Not daring to say anything as he pounded up the stairs, I rubbed life back into my gut and stared at the open back door. The hell? When I heard Aya's door slam open and closed with as just as much excessive force, I finally straightened away from the table, punched the button for the garage door, and closed the back door. Okay, I missed something.

Where the hell was Omi? He usually rides home with Aya when Ken takes his bike out. Still rubbing my bruising gut, I grabbed my beer, an empty dish, and took up a seat at the table. Cigarettes and beer were probably the best company I was getting tonight. If Omi wasn't with Aya, he was riding home with Ken, which he hated because Ken drove like maniac. So that meant--Aya was pissed at Omi? I blinked at my beer. That made no sense at all. Omi just didn't piss anyone off. The kid is about as inoffensive as one of his flower arrangements.

I had gotten through two cigarettes before the garage door clattered open again, and Ken's bike rumbled to a halt inside. Omi was inside first. He didn't react to seeing me anymore than Aya had; he just shuffled slowly up the steps towards the first floor. Figured. I wasn't even going to get thanked for coming up with a brilliant lie for Ouka's mother about how her daughter got hurt, for God's sake. I raked a hand through my hair and sighed. Ken followed in after a minute, towel wrapped bugnuks in his hand. I stood with my almost empty beer can and followed him all the way up to the top floor.

We were so odd about that. If we had to clean our weapons, we used the greenhouse hose to clean them, bypassing the shop hose, the kitchen sink, the downstairs bathroom sink, and the full bathroom sink. No one ever suggested stopping at one of the lower faucets. No one ever commented on the oddity. We just...did it. Each and every time. So I leaned in the greenhouse doorway and watched Ken clean the claws and interior mechanism before toweling it dry on clean rag. He stared down at the glove with a bruised look that resembled Omi's. "Ken? I hate to push, but I'd like to know what happened after I left. Aya's in a real snit, and Omi looked like he ran over Momoe-chan's cat."

Ken looked up, his expression tightening into something vaguely mature as he stood. I let him past me and followed him down to his room. It didn't seem fair to ask Omi. Aya sure as hell wouldn't be approachable until tomorrow at the earliest. That left Ken. He put his gloves, weapon and non, in their personal drawer before stripping out of his mission gear. I folded into a seat on his floor and drained the last of my beer, waiting. When Ken had gotten clean jeans on, he dropped onto his bed, set his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. "That good, was it?"

"Omi let Takatori Hirofumi go. Said he was his older brother. Yeah, it's that good."

"Oh, fuck." I blinked at Ken.

"Yeah. About what I was thinking."

I flicked ash from my cigarette into my now-empty can and thought. First, I remembered Ken relating that old news story about a banker named Fujimiya and his surviving children--one comatose daughter, one barely injured son. I took a long drag on my cigarette. I remembered Ken relaying Aya's aborted attack on a helicopter with just his sword and snarling the name Takatori. And his headlong rush after Masafumi. Aya had wanted to be the one to take out Hirofumi, too. I worried at all the information like a sore tooth, because this changed the face of everything. And I was dead certain I didn't like any of it one bit. Not one damn bit. I flicked more ash into my can. "Well. How about we go grab dinner somewhere? Somehow, I don't think Aya or Omi is gonna be real interested in eating tonight."

Ken's head lifted, and he just stared at me for a moment, like I had grown a second head. I watched the wheels turn as he came to the same conclusion I had: there wasn't a damn thing we could do for either of them tonight. Aya was going to brood, and Omi was going to brood. In their rooms behind locked doors. Trying to get Aya to open his door would be inviting death. Trying to get Omi to open his door would be kicking a puppy. Ken stood and snatched a t-shirt from the laundry pile. "You paying?"

"Half?"

"That'll work. Let's go."


	19. Aggressive Tendencies

It was a sharp crack that woke me, I think.

I couldn't have been a hundred percent positive, muffled as it was by a whole floor level, the practice room mats, and my own deep sleep. But I was pretty damn sure it was a crack. It was followed just seconds later by a heavy slam and the impressive screech of wood against wood over my bed while my brain was still in that startled who?-what?-huh? phase of sudden wakefulness. The next noise rattled something in Ken's room over mine. My startled, fuzzily awake, brain hazarded a guess that it was the light fixture and marveled at how hard the invaders must have been stomping on the practice room floor. I snatched my watch from the night stand and fell out of bed to look for my gloves. It being a Sunday, my pajamas were in the wash so I fell out of my room without a second thought about robes or clothes--hey, I was armed, _let_ the invaders laugh--and followed the noises upstairs. I stopped as I passed Omi's door, because there was music coming from behind that door just loud enough to drown out the noises. Well, if you were inside with the music, anyway. I blinked and raised my hand to open Omi's door.

That's when I heard a shouted curse--Ken, I thought--and something hit the practice room door hard enough to make it shudder.

After a frozen moment, Aya's voice joined Ken's in a cursing match fit to tie Momoe-chan's panties in a Gordian knot if she heard the pair of them. Swearing myself as the adrenaline started cooling in my bloodstream, I turned around, walked _back_ into my room, and snatched a pair of jeans from a drawer. My gloves were dropped on my nightstand. Then I trotted into the bathroom, did my immediate business, and grabbed the first aid kit. Meanwhile, the music from Omi's room had gotten louder, and the cursing hit astonishingly insulting levels. I sighed and prayed Momoe-chan had gone out. Really, really hard.

I knocked hard on Omi's door, then opened it. The kid was curled up in front of his computer--the game exploding across the monitor accounted for the weird blips in the music--and still looked like he'd run over Momoe-chan's cat. I walked in, fished his headphones from their hook on the wall, and held them out to Omi. He blinked at me, flinched, then reached for the volume control on his stereo and took the headphones from me. I sighed, once he had the music low enough to hear me, and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "Relax. I'll handle that--" I pointed to the ceiling with the first aid kit. "--but I think it might be safer if there wasn't noise coming from your room when Aya comes down."

Omi nodded, bruised eyes unblinking on my face, as he put the headphones on. I gave his shoulder another squeeze before turning and heading upstairs. Poor kid. Hell, poor all of us, at this rate. I pressed my ear to the door gingerly, lest someone slam into it again, and tried to guess where they were in the room based on the sounds. When I thought they were on the far side of the practice room, I opened the door even more gingerly and peeked inside to survey the damage. Ken's wooden claws would have to be replaced again, and this time so would Aya's practice sword. And four out of six mats instead of one. And maybe Ken's head. _Jesus._

Ken was down on the mats with Aya straddling his stomach. Ken had one hand tangled in the remains of his glove and the mess it had made of the mats. Ken's feet were struggling for hard security on the ripped mat under their heels. His other hand was clutched in the middle of the larger half of the remains of Aya's practice sword (the other, smaller half was stabbed in a mat at a crazy angle about three feet from where the combatants were), because if he didn't, it would come crashing down on his throat. Aya had a hand on either end of that broken stick, bearing down with all his weight and leverage. Ken didn't appear worried any more than Aya had almost a month ago during their last stunning fight. I decided then and there Ken had balls of steel; _that_ fight sure as hell hadn't caused this much collateral damage to the room.

Ken found the purchase he had been seeking with his feet abruptly. In almost the same instant, Ken's arm relaxed his arm under Aya's insistent push, and his whole body bucked under Aya's. The swordsman, losing both leverage and control of his weight, pitched forward over the broken wooden sword and got tossed to his left when he didn't react fast enough to stop Ken's roll. Ken's stuck hand was under the small of Aya's back now, but the broken stick was trapped between them with one of Aya's hands. Ken had managed to bring one leg up during his roll, so his shin was bearing down on Aya's right leg. The snarl Aya let loose would've been enough to persuade _me_ to back the hell off.

Aya slammed his sword hand--the one he had kept clear of Ken's roll--into the bony flesh just in front of Ken's ear, and with his free left foot, he scrambled for the same purchase Ken had found on the mats. Ken flinched with the hit but forced his other arm under Aya. I could see he was trying to get his trapped hand free and from my angle I knew that he wouldn't have time. Aya's left heel caught in the same rip Ken had used, and he rolled them to _Ken's_ left into the wall. Their combined weight and momentum yanked the mangled wooden claws from the mat, but Ken's startled shout died to a pained hiss as it came free. "Fuck. Hurt. Offa me."

And just like that, neither of them were fighting.

Aya lurched off of Ken and sat splay-legged on the mats, panting. Ken sat up, winced, and started picking the remains of his practice claws apart from his hand. There was a bloody gash on his palm between his third and little finger. I pushed the door open wider, cleared my throat, and stepped carefully towards them. The door's movement had caused Aya to snatch the nearest broken piece of wood, and then the corners of his mouth twisted marginally upwards as he saw me. I'd walked in holding the first aid kit in front of me like a shield. I crouched beside Ken, but my attention was focused on Aya. I wasn't afraid. The boiling rage in the room had evaporated with Ken's hiss. Better to call it wariness. Aya was a bomb with a short fuse at the moment. "Thought one of you might end up needing this."

Aya's eyes closed, and he slumped on his less-bruised right arm. I skidded the bruise cream across an undamaged section of the mats into his knee before going to work on Ken's hand. The bleeding was easy to stop and Ken could move everything around it--complaining the whole time, too--so the snapped claw hadn't hit anything major. I glanced at Aya as I wrapped up Ken's hand, relieved that he'd started applying the cream to his bruises. When I looked back at Ken, he was watching Aya, and there was a wry, lopsided smile on his face. "Hey. You could apologize, y'know. You got my hand stuck like that."

"And you tried to kick me where no man should kick another, Ken. Deal with it." Aya gave Ken a sideways look as he rubbed the cream into his left cheek; narrowed eyes crinkled at the corners, smooth forehead, and the corners of his lips were twitching. Aya variety sly laughter. For my part, I flinched just at the thought. Aya tossed the tub back to me and cautiously got to his feet, keeping his weight on his left leg. Ken snickered and gingerly flexed his bandaged hand after I let him go. I watched Aya place a hand against the wall before testing his right leg. His eyes and mouth tightened, and the merest shadow of a line started shaping itself between his eyebrows.

"Pants off. Let's have a look at your leg." I waved the bruise cream tub at the swordsman threateningly as I stood. Ken burst out laughing and pushed himself up with his other hand slowly. "And you too, while I'm playing mother hen. Your jaw's starting to color."

Ken rolled his eyes and started towards the door. "M'afraid I banged Aya up more than he did me. Now that you've patched my hand up, I'll get the extra tub of that stuff Aya keeps in his room and go soak myself in the bathtub. Downstairs, since Momoe-san's gone out with friends for the day."

Oh, good. The poor old lady hadn't heard any of this. Now if we could just keep the fuss to a minimum... "Aya?"

Aya snorted--or grunted? I still hadn't quite decided which that sound was supposed to be--and hitched away from the wall, gesturing me to help him limp downstairs. "Upstairs bathroom. I want to soak, too."

My day was definitely looking up. Not that I had a hope of getting sex out of Aya--not with the mission hanging and the problem with Omi looming--but he was calm enough now that I knew I could tease him, just a little, without setting him off.


	20. Foundations

I leaned against the cash register desk in the empty shop, surveying the carefully distant expression on Omi's face. For a long, terrible moment, I wished I was Ken. Nice, bumbling Ken who could jolly someone out of a bad mood. So long as he hadn't flipped into Psycho-Ken mode, anyway.

Even being Aya would've been all right. That bastard generally manages to give intelligent advice. He just never _takes_ his own, nevermind anyone else's.

Yohji doesn't jolly people; Yohji yanks their chains until blood flows in one way or another. Yohji is a coward and a fool, not some kind of elder brother figure. so why the hell did Ken have to be gone and Aya deep into his most recent psychotic trip over Omi when Omi really needed them not me?

Because God hates me.

So I watched Omi gingerly work the flowers on the table into a depressing arrangement and racked my pathetic brain for something to take that expression off his face and make him smile again. Predictably, nothing was coming. I sighed and glanced out the window at the street. "Omi," I began anyway, oh so cleverly. "Aya's just..."

Omi's hands stilled holding a small spray of rhododendron flowers between them. Everything I'd intended to try saying lodged in my throat and died. He looked up at me, his eyes blind to everything in that moment. "Aya is a girl that my father has all but killed. So still on that bed. His little sister. I never understood hate before, Yohji-kun."

"It's not you he hates," I murmured softly. Girl? Ken had mentioned a sister... Oh. That explained it. I'd always known Aya wasn't his name, but...his sister's? The bastard really is too fucked up for words sometimes. Okay, most of the time. All right, _all_ the time. And Reiji of the Takatori family had hurt her badly. Omi's gaze had sharpened on me, however, at my intrusion on his thoughts. "It's not, Omi. He's just...he's hurting. He wants to lash out at someone else. This...isn't a thing he can take out on me or Ken. We're not involved. You are, however indirectly. So he takes chunks out of you, because then he doesn't have to think of the chunks missing in him. Am I making any sense?"

Omi looked down at the grouping of flowers on a single stem in his hand, empty-faced still. "But what am I supposed to do? Help kill another of my brothers? My father? How can he ask that of me?"

"You didn't even remember them until a few days ago," I said as gently as I could. I stood away from the desk and walked over to Omi, picking the flower out of his hand. I set my other hand on his shoulder, and I bent to look him in the eye. "Do they mean anything to you? Have they saved you from death? Did they try to look for you when you went missing from their lives? Do you mean anything to _them_? Would they forgive you now, knowing you killed your own brother, whether you knew it or not?"

Omi's mouth opened, and those huge blue eyes of his went all bruisable on me, and heaven help me, I thought it was better than that total lack of anything. Sounds choked out of him, but nothing coherent enough to stop me from delivering the final blows. "Can you forgive yourself if you try to go back? You're head's a murky enough place, _Omi_ , I know you can deal as long as you can't connect. Do _you_ think you can deal if you're forced to connect with what you've done?"

The kid looked like I'd nailed him in the gut. Seconds later, he shoved me back with a punch that nailed me in _my_ gut. He scrambled to his feet while I caught my balance against the table and my breath in ragged gasps. Wincing at how stupid I was, I didn't stop Omi's flight from the store. I didn't see how I could make it any worse. I just hoped the sense of what I'd said got through. Omi might destroy himself if he stopped being Omi. If he didn't, I knew Aya would do it for him. I didn't want them pitted against each other. I knew who would win, and in that victory, I knew there would be the victor's body on the ground.

Ken walked in a quarter of an hour later and just looked at me. I'd taken Omi's seat at the work table, and the flowers he'd been working with were in my hands. I didn't look up from finishing Omi's depressed looking arrangement after a single glance to confirm it wasn't Omi. Ken shuffled closer, knocking half-dried mud from his shoes. Aya would flip later. Neat freak. "Yohji. What'd you say to Omi? He locked himself in his room, and he just yells at me to go away."

Omi? Yelling? Oh, wonderful. I flinched but didn't look up from the flowers. "You know me, Ken. I said the unvarnished truth, 'cause I can't ever seem to be gentle. But this can't go on, Ken. Something--someone--has got to give. If no one does... We could all end up dead. You think any of us would survive? You think Persia couldn't order us to take out another Takatori brother? I don't doubt Aya could do it, but I _can't_ , Ken. I can't kill Omi. Could you? Could you face yourself in the mirror if you didn't or if you did once that choice is shoved in your face?"

Ken's face pinched. His sneakers scuffed across the floorboards. Slowly, he moved to the rack we hung our aprons on and threw his on. "You're a real optimist, aren't you, asshole?" Then he sighed and grabbed the shop hose.

"Always and ever, Ken. This isn't much of an excuse for a life, but what there is of it, I'd like to hang on to. That includes all of you," I said, moving the arrangement's pieces just a little for effect. I felt Ken's eyes boring a hole in my head.

"We're all going to go crazy this way, aren't we? People aren't meant for things like this."

"We're already crazy, Ken. How the hell else did we agree to...to this?" I gestured lazily to the shop, but Ken understood. I'd meant Weiß. 'White' in German. What a fucking joke.

Ken rubbed the side of his face and glanced at the back door. "Shit. No way out now, is there. Except death, and I...I'm scared. Of what'll be there, waiting for me when I'm already living in Hell."

"So am I, Ken," I murmured softly. "So am I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian flower language: rhododendron -- agitation, danger, beware


	21. No Paddles

"Well, this is fucked," I informed the coffee maker. It percolated calmly in response. "Fucked, fucked, fucked. Can our lives get worse, you think?" The coffee maker continued to bubble soothingly.

"Be careful what you wish for, Yohji."

I blinked thinking that for a bad moment I'd completely lost it. Then the dark chocolate voice registed in my brain, and I turned to look at Aya on the bottom step. Ken wasn't with him, so I knew Omi hadn't passed out yet. Thinking about Omi reminded me of the thoughts Aya's advice had interrupted. "I wasn't wishin', Aya. That was sarcasm. You should recognise it, it's the only kind of humor you have."

A canyon of line appeared on Aya's forehead, his finely arched eyebrows snapped downward over the barest gleam of slitted eyes, and the corners of his mouth pinched in. That would be one step below total fury. I sighed. "Sorry, Aya. I'm just...right. We're all irritable and unhappy and even I should know better than to push buttons. That cover it?"

Aya's anger didn't ease up while he studied me, eyes moving head to toe and back again. Finally, he snorted--grunted?--then his expression fell into blank lines. Exhaustion setting in. He leaned his hip against the rail and crossed his legs at the ankle, arms folded across his chest. "It's been a bad week," he relented.

"We don't have good weeks anymore, Aya," I snarled, turning back to the coffee pot and jerking the carafe free. Coffee dripped to the hot plate, but I didn't care. It was only a few drops anyway, before the catch slid shut. I poured the coffee into my gag mug. "You noticed that? We don't go a week without someone dying. Usually we killed them. Multiple thems, too. And now...this... _shit_. Murder doesn't phase Omi's brain, but he _loved_ that girl, and she's..."

"Dead."

"Yeah, dead. I'm scared, Aya. I'm scared. I wasn't holding Asuka when she died, but it's the same thing and I--" Aya's hand closed abruptly over my mouth, and I nearly dropped mug and carafe. I hadn't heard him move behind me. The line was back, but his eyes crinkled a little and his mouth only turned down; Aya's version of concern, in spite of dulled violet eyes. Keeping his left hand across my mouth, the thickly calloused fingers of his right slid over my cheek. "Shh, Yohji. Shh. You're right, the sins we commit roll off of him. Omi will pull himself together. You need to let them roll off of you as well."

I pulled my head back, glared at him, and I put the carafe back on the hot plate. "Let it roll off me? You mean we're just supposed to wallow in it--"

"You chose this, like the rest of us. Either you can handle it or you cannot handle it." While I was still staring and collecting my own fury, Aya shoved his hands into his pockets then turned and left the kitchen.

I was going to kill him. I thunked the mug down on the counter and stalked after him into the living room. "Listen, you...you arrogant little prick. No one told me I'd be living in Hell when they made me this shitty deal. I bet no one told Omi either, or Ken--" Aya stopped dead in his tracks, nearly causing me to run into him. I hauled back a step but didn't stop raising my voice to his back. "--or _you_ , Mr. Smarty-pants, and be damned if I'm not going to complain--" Aya put the toe of his right foot behind his left heel and spun himself around to face my shouting without any other movements. "--about it. There's nothing _else_ I can do about--"

Suddenly his hands knotted themselves in my hair and yanked my mouth down the two inches to meet his own. His tongue pushed its way through my already parted lips, and the only thought I could manage was something along the lines of 'guh'. I'd never had someone try to stop an argument with me like that before. I couldn't help but think if Asuka had tried it, I'd have never won anything against her. "Yohji," he whispered against my lips when he released them. His hands slowly caressed their way to the nape of my neck. "It'll be all right."

Somehow, I found it ironic listening to Aya say that. Aya, for whom everything was less all right than it was for the rest of us, trying to tell me that it would be. I knew he believed it, too, which made it all worse. He honestly believed things would be okay for him when Takatori Reiji was dead. I could have told him better. Instead, I closed my eyes and buried my face in his bony shoulder. For a time, he let me--even hugged me back. But, finally, he nudged me away and turned me back toward the kitchen. "Your coffee will get cold, Yohji. Go drink it. I'll find you when I finish watering the plants."

I sighed and shuffled back to the kitchen without voicing any of my complaints. It wouldn't have helped, voicing them. Ken had it right. Like him, I was just scared of what came after Hell. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I looked back at the coffee maker. "We're fucked," I mumbled and drank the damned coffee.


End file.
